


Lead on, Sir

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Petyr Baelish is his own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: a modern au! where Joanna Lannister lives, Cersei marries Rhaegar, Jaime marries Elia, and Sansa is Ashara's daughter.That doesn't stop Rhaegar and Lyanna working together on a film, though.And any gathering of Lannisters, Daynes, Targaryens and Starks is always going to be explosive.





	1. PROLOGUE: a sundering

 

* * *

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

_a sundering_

 

* * *

 

 

“Sansa never lies!” Rickon exclaims angrily. “Father, you _know_ she doesn’t!”

 

Ned Stark of Winterfell looks between his youngest son and eldest daughter wearily. The little boy is ferocious in his defence of his favourite sibling, his hands on his hips, stance wide, his chest puffed up, chin raised, grey eyes flashing behind his curly auburn fringe. Sansa, by contrast, is so still she could almost be a statue; hands neatly folded in her lap, head bowed.

 

“Father,” she says eventually, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I would not lie. Not about something like this.”

 

“I want her gone, Ned.” Sansa’s stepmother Catelyn interjects furiously. “Petyr Baelish has been a close friend since we were children; he would never do something like this. Least of all to Sansa - she’s far too young! What else could this be except the jealous, attention-seeking behaviour of a teenager?”

 

Sansa lets her father and Catelyn argue back and forth over her head. She hears none of it. She stares blankly at the white wood-and-glass coffee table in front of her, her fists clenched tightly so no-one can see them tremble. In this moment, she wants nothing more than her mother’s embrace, for an adult to comfort her and say _I believe you_ and _he’s a foul, evil, loathsome man whom we’ll lock up._ But she realises she will not find it here, in Winterfell, a place that is meant to be her home. 

 

Her parents had divorced when Sansa was only a baby; there’d been some affair, but her mother and father had eventually settled on shared custody, and so Sansa has been shuttled back and forth from Winterfell and Starfall for the past twelve years. As she’s got older, and coming north has meant being away from her mother’s exciting life as a professional dancer turned equestrian and actress, being away from her aunt Allyria and her uncles Arthur and Parsifal, and dealing with her stepmother’s increasing animosity. Robb is too much of a rowdy _boy_ for Sansa to have much too do with him; and Bran has his philosophy and physics textbooks and Arya is too wild; so that leaves only her littlest brother Rickon, sweet, talented, imaginative Rickon, who is quite content to mimic her dance steps or to demand he does all the voices himself when Sansa reads him his storybooks.

 

“I’ll call my mother,” she says suddenly, surprising herself with the strength of her voice. “It’s alright,” she nods. “I’ll go.” She expects the decision to be harder than it is; it isn’t. The only person she will miss is Rickon.

 

“No!” Rickon shouts. “No! I won’t let you, Father. You can’t chase Sansa away.”

 

Her heart breaks at the misery and fury in her little brother’s voice, but she swallows her tears and forces her tone to some semblance of equanimity and evenness. “It’ll be alright, little brother. I don’t want to cause a rift.”

 

“But then who is going to do all the voices in my Dance of Dragons book with me?” Rickon pleads, fastening himself like a limpet to her taller frame, burrowing his head into the hollow of her neck, hot tears burning her collarbone. She clings on to him, but she knows she has to let go.

 

She studiously avoids her father’s eyes as she sets Rickon down on his feet, sliding from the sofa to kneel on the floor, limbs sinking into the luxurious white and silver carpet. She comforts him as best she can even as he stubbornly shakes his head in denial. “I can’t stay here, Rickon,” she whispers into his ear. 

 

“I don’t like it,” He replies, and she strokes his back in commiseration.

 

“I know,” she says quietly. “I know.”

 

And then she pulls them both to their feet, lifting Rickon against her hips with an exaggerated huff that never fails to send him into peals of laughter; and it does so now, and though he smiles rather than giggles, it is still an improvement, and Sansa feels slightly better for having managed to cheer him up even if only a little. She strides lithely towards the stairs, head held high, and responds without looking back to Catelyn Stark’s exclamations of protest that she is going to fetch her phone in her room from which she then intends to call her mother. She wishes she could add a quip about preventing a screaming match via smartphone, but in the deep, protected recesses of her heart a quiet malicious voice repeats: _if Father didn’t believe you, will Mother?_

 

She shuts her bedroom door behind her and deposits Rickon on his favoured fluffy white pillows and blankets nest he builds every afternoon on her floor in preparation for story time after school, when Rickon and Sansa lie down with their books and a tangle of pillows, blankets, and two massive direwolves. 

 

Lady and Shaggydog bound up to their humans as soon as they enter, sniffing palms, and in Shaggy’s case, lying down next to Rickon so their heads are side-by-side. Lady still has Petyr Baelish’s blood on her muzzle, from where she’d ripped into his leg as he’d torn off Sansa’s clothes, pinning her to the sofa. Catelyn had ordered Lady locked away whilst they spoke to Sansa, and it had felt like they were tearing her soul apart. To be questioned, to be thought a liar, by her family, without Lady’s support and quiet, unconditional affection, when she was already so vulnerable, is a betrayal Sansa does not know how to forgive. To treat Lady as nothing more than a feral animal when she is Sansa’s _direwolf_ is an insult of the highest order. 

 

Sansa falls onto her direwolf, dizzy with shock and heartache and revulsion, and only Lady’s strength and steady presence keep her from complete collapse. She is beyond tears, beyond feeling anything except numbness, and only with Lady’s help can she muster the strength to stagger to her feet and cross to her desk to get her phone.

 

She sinks onto her bed in relief when her mother answers on the first ring. “Darling? What is it?” Ashara Dayne’s mellifluous voice has never felt so comforting. 

 

“I need to come back to Starfall, or King’s Landing - anywhere except Winterfell,” Sansa stutters out. 

 

“What have they done to you?” The Lady of Starfall’s voice is sharper now, as sharp as her House’s ancestral greatsword. 

 

“I - please can I just come home?” She trembles. 

 

“Always, darling. Parsifal can fly me up in the jet; I’ll be at Winterfell this evening.” 

 

She isn’t ashamed of the way she bursts into relieved sobs, thanking her mother over and over again, simultaneously realising in some distant part of her brain that she must be frightening her mother significantly. Her mother asks her to pass the phone to her father but Sansa cannot bring herself to leave her room. She’s afraid of what she might see in her father’s eyes, in her stepmother’s eyes. And so her mother stays on the line even as she calls Sansa’s eldest uncle, Lord Parsifal, as she collects her handbag and dashes out to the airfield, even as the plane takes off (she can hear the great roar of the engines in the background). 

 

Sansa finds her leather weekend bag and her white leather trunk with rose-gold clasps, and Rickon helps her, handing her clothes, books, framed photographs and trinkets. Her uncle chats to her about King’s Landing’s newest opera and how his foals from the stud at Starfall are doing. Her mother draws the odd chuckle from her lips telling her about Aunt Allyria’s mishaps doing business in Pentos. And Rickon makes them all laugh telling stories of his latest adventures with Shaggydog in the Wolfswood near Winterfell. 

 

Several hours later her room appears uncomfortably bare, as though Sansa has already left. She can see the rectangular shadows on her walls of where her photographs used to hang and her desk and shelves are now no more than plain pieces of wood; utilitarian in the extreme. Every trace of her has already vanished, and she feels as a ghost in her own life.

 

Rickon hangs around her middle, whispering desperately into her waist. “I wish I could come with you, Sansa. You’re the only one here who cares about me.”

 

Heart ripped to shreds and then punched through with shards of glass, she assures him that isn’t true, that both his parents and all his elder siblings care about him, but Rickon only clutches more tightly at her. “No,” he disagrees. “You care about me for _me;_ you don’t tell me to shut up when I’m doing all the voices from my books, you let me dance with you. Robb waves me away and Bran doesn’t care unless it’s astronomy and Arya only likes playing in the mud. You sing all the songs I want with me. Mother is always saying _not now, Rickon, can’t you see I’m busy_ (and Sansa freezes momentarily; his impression of his mother is eerily good) and Father is always working. I wish I could come with you,” he finishes mournfully.

 

Sansa can’t think of anything to say, so she runs her fingers through his hair, combing through the tousled locks. 

 

“I’ll work really hard,” Rickon continues, seemingly to himself. “I’ll get a ballet scholarship to the Castamere Company in King’s Landing, and then I’ll be with you again, big sister, you’ll see.”

 

“Rickon,” she replies tenderly, kneeling so she is eye-level with him, “I know you will. You’re talented enough to do anything you like.”

 

“Will you call me?” She winces at how defeated he sounds.

 

“Every day,” Sansa assures him solemnly. “Every breakfast time to wish you good morning, and every evening so we can tell each other how our days have been.”

 

“And so we can read together,” he insists, grey eyes wide. That gets a real laugh out of her, and she ruffles his curls, smiling.

 

“And so we can read together,” she assures him.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	2. HARRENHAL I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrenhal, five years later.
> 
> Jaime sends a text, Arthur doesn't like the champagne, and Sansa dazzles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so welcome to the proper start of this little modern!au of mine; it's probably not going to be very long, a few chapters at most, and is going to be much lighter theme-wise than The Winter Queen. That's not to say there won't be the occasional dark moment in this, but I've tried to include as much banter as possible.
> 
> Enjoy, and do tell me what you think!

 

* * *

 

 

HARRENHAL I

_five years later_

 

* * *

 

 

 

JAIME LANNISTER

 

He is a professional ballet dancer, artistic director at the relatively young age of thirty of the Castamere Ballet Company based in King’s Landing; awards ceremonies are not events he is particularly familiar with, or particularly fond of. Nevertheless, he has an invitation issued by his father; therefore his presence tonight is required. One does not simply refuse Lord Tywin Lannister and live to tell the tale. The Harrenhal Dragon Awards are the most prestigious film industry awards in the country; they are hence prime hunting ground for his father, Jaime thinks sardonically. Tywin and Joanna Lannister are eminent patrons of the arts as well as the founders of _Casterly_ , the wildly successful luxury jewellery and fashion company, and the evening of socialising such a night entails provides the perfect setting for what Jaime privately names headhunting, but what his father prefers to term gaining knowledge of future talents (and establishing himself as the go-to person to know in the process).

 

He plucks a flute of champagne from the waiter as he enters the ballroom, and scans the crowd for people he knows. The atmosphere tonight is tinged with more than a sense of importance; there’s a real undercurrent of excitement in the laughing conversations of the people here. Jaime gathers from his parents that there have been some true surprises with the nominations this year, but quite honestly, he couldn’t care less. 

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he quickly pulls it out. Yet another message from Oberyn. In any other circumstance, he’d have told the man to _fuck off, if you would be so kind,_ but he’s been forced to leave his little three year old daughter Myrcella with her uncle in order to attend this ridiculous ceremony, and Oberyn knows him well enough that he detests being away from his only child, especially after Elia’s death the previous winter from breast cancer, hence all the text updates. 

 

Jaime looks at the screen and smiles, a touch sadly. It’s not a text, but a photograph this time. His daughter is curled up in her cot, asleep, her dark curls fanned out over her blue blanket, and her emerald eyes closed. _All is well,_ reads the caption.

 

_Thank you,_ he replies tersely, before inelegantly downing his champagne and stalking off to a quiet corner before his father catches his eye and forces him to interact with actresses who are only interested in his name and his fame. _Ooh, ballet…_ they invariably coo, batting spiky, mascara-d eyelashes at him _is it so terribly difficult? You must get really sweaty._ He snorts. Ballet is more than entertainment; it is an art form, a passion, a way of life, a language unto itself. A curt _my wife recently passed_ usually is enough to put these women off, but he is not looking forward to fending them off. 

 

Normally, he would be able to count on either Tyrion or Cersei to liven things up a little, but Tyrion begged off, saying he still had company accounts to go over, and this is a big night for Cersei, as the wife of actor-director Rhaegar Targaryen. Jaime doesn’t care for Rhaegar very much, but Cersei has been smitten with him since they first began dating twelve years ago, so Jaime tolerates him for the sake of his beloved twin. Cersei and Rhaegar’s daughter Rhaenys has been Myrcella’s favoured playmate, and the golden-haired, violet-eyed five year old has inherited the Lannister dancing talent, to Jaime’s amusement and Rhaegar’s disdain. 

 

Just when he is about to become insufferably bored, he hears his name spoken by someone he would not have imagined would attend these things in a thousand years. He turns and salutes the man striding towards him.

 

“Arthur! Didn’t think this was really your scene,” he exclaims, a genuine smile on his face as he addresses the man who has long been mentor, teacher and friend to him, accepting his second champagne flute of the night. “I thought you were in Pentos, for that tour.”

 

The other man smiles, swallows some champagne, and grimaces in distaste, staring at the glass as though it has personally insulted him before recovering. “Got back two days ago. And you’re right, by the way. I can’t think of a worse evening out, but Ashara asked me to accompany her.”

 

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Your sister’s been nominated? Congratulations.”

 

Arthur Dayne smiles his thanks and tilts his head. Jaime reads the unspoken question and mutters an answer, swallowing another mouthful of the champagne. “My father.”

 

“Ah. Understood.”

 

“There’s got to be joke in there somewhere, hasn’t there… two ballet dancers walk into a ballroom…” Jaime mutters sardonically. Arthur snorts in reply, scanning the room. 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Arthur snarls suddenly, startling Jaime. Jaime turns to ask what the matter is, but Arthur has already stalked off into the crowd. Curiosity  battling with annoyance, Jaime follows, shouldering past countless men in black tie and women in skimpy glittering gowns, ignoring the grumbling and swearing this causes. He bites back a smirk of amusement. All this finery, but annoy these people with more money and beauty than sense and their true vulgarity shines through. 

 

In a quiet alcove in a deserted hallway just off the main ballroom, a lady with shining red hair and flashing sea-blue eyes is pushing furiously at a man with close-cropped hair and a smarmy voice. He is whispering into her ear, and she shakes her head, desperately trying to pull away, but the man’s hands dig cruelly into her waist, clutching at the delicate dark wine-red material of her gown. Jaime sees how she is trying to angle her body away from his, and he makes his decision in an instant.

 

He catches Arthur’s eye, and the two men exchange grim nods. As Arthur makes his way towards the two, angling his body so the man can’t see him coming, Jaime strides determinedly forwards. 

 

“Darling!” Jaime exclaims jovially. The man looks up in surprise, and the lady uses this distraction to wrench herself away from him. “Forgive me, my love, I was waylaid by some sponsors.” Intelligent eyes look up at him, widening slightly as he gently slips an arm around her waist, drawing her gently to his side. She catches on to the ruse immediately, laying her head on his shoulder. “Was this man disturbing you?” He draws a finger down her cheek, some part of him worried that he’s laying it on a bit thick, but he sees the reaction she can’t quite hide, the darkening of her eyes, the mischievous quirk of her lips, and he breathes a bit more easily. 

 

Their eyes lock and he drowns for a moment in her gaze. _Sunset eyes,_ he thinks dimly. _She has sunset-eyes, the colour of the sea at the Rock at dusk._ Exquisitely shaped, framed with long eyelashes, highlighted only with a smidgen of kohl. A blush spreads across her cheeks and a lazy grin splits his face as she tilts her face to his. “Not now that you are here, sir,” she replies slowly, languidly. He exhales a touch unsteadily. _Sir,_ spoken in her voice, a melodic, gentle voice, feels far more like an endearment than a formality. 

 

He is so wrapped up in her that he almost misses Arthur yanking the man backwards by the collar to whisper menacingly in the blackguard’s ear. “If I see you within a hundred feet of her ever again I’ll have your balls, d’you hear? Now if you would kindly fuck off and crawl back into whatever filthy hole you came from, I’d be much obliged to you, Baelish.”

 

The man Baelish ( _Jaime vaguely recognises the name, though he can’t for the life of him remember where from_ ) splutters and coughs, straightening his bow tie, slicking back his greasy hair with sweaty palms. “Your niece and I were just having a little catch up, Mr Dayne, that is all. I apologise for getting a touch carried away, but we haven’t met since the last time Sansa was at Winterfell five years ago.”

 

Jaime feels the lady, who he has just realised is Sansa Dayne-Stark, stiffen in his arms. In other words, the nineteen year old prodigy of a ballet dancer who has just transferred on a permanent contract from a two-year stint with the Braavosi Ballet to Castamere, hired by his brother Tyrion on glowing recommendations from Cersei, (who apparently discovered and fell in love with Sansa’s performance in _Water Dance_ on her last business trip) Oberyn _and_ Margaery Tyrell. Swallowing back his shock, he gently, slowly, traces reassuring circles on her hip, and he feels her gradually relax into his embrace, even as her expression hardens and her voice turns to ice. “I will never be yours,” she spits. “There is nothing you could ever do to me that would make me yours.”

 

“A girl never forgets her first, they say.” Baelish replies, unaffected. Jaime grits his teeth at the implication the man makes. Sansa stiffens further in Jaime’s arms, and he feels how her entire frame trembles as she interlaces their hands on her left hip. 

 

“How’s your leg, _Petyr?_ ” Sansa replies haughtily, cooling arching a perfect eyebrow, and Jaime can only be awed by her composure, her bravery. “I heard it took over one hundred and fifty stitches for the Maesters to repair my direwolf’s damage. You’re still limping, I see.” She glances pointedly at the suit-clothed leg. 

 

Baelish flushes, humiliated, but somehow persists. “Come now, sweetling, it was just a misunderstanding.”

 

“You _raped_ me.” Sansa cuts the man off coldly. Jaime freezes. The wave of protectiveness he suddenly feels threatens to send him to his knees. He doesn’t particularly wish to examine it; he readily admits he’s afraid of what it might mean.

 

“But you know what? You could rape me a thousand times and I still wouldn’t be yours. You can’t buy me with your false promises, you can’t buy me with jewels or gowns or the promise of fame. I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s. I’m not a possession; I’m not a thing.”

 

“And yet you’re with _him?”_ Baelish’s face twists in disgust, and if Jaime weren’t so amused he might have been offended. 

 

“Why don’t we all get a drink?” Jaime offers lightly. “Arthur, Sansa, _(he lingers on her name like a caress)_ sound like a good idea?”

 

“They’ll have some of the good whisky at the bar,” Arthur agrees.

 

“Excellent,” Jaime smiles sharply, before shifting his attention to the lady at his side. “Darling?” he asks, trailing a finger from the whorl of her ear down her jawline, his thumb coming to rest on her chin. She smiles brilliantly at him, and he suddenly forgets to breathe. 

 

“I’d like that,” she whispers throatily. 

 

He is suddenly aware of the picture they must make; her pulled flush against him, his hand splayed low on her back, so low it could almost be considered indecent, his other hand cupping her cheek, her expression bright, gazes locked. It would be the work of less than an instant to cover her lips with his in a most ardent kiss, and he is more saddened than he will ever admit to remember that this is only a charade for the single purpose of getting rid of the Baelish bastard.

 

Jaime makes a pleased noise of assent for the benefit of his audience and begins to walk his companion towards the bar, his right hand resting low on her back, her fingers loosely entangled with his left. “Oh, did I not mention - ” he drawls to Baelish over his shoulder “ - I’m a bit of a snob; I don’t drink with gutter rats, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to say goodbye. I’d say farewell if I actually cared about anything you might say, but seeing as I don’t… fuck off kindly now, before I call security. Off you trot, chop-chop.” 

 

He saunters off with Sansa, strangely proud that she is now trembling with repressed laughter instead of fury, but he apparently hasn’t sauntered off far or fast enough, because he hears Baelish speak again. 

 

“If it’s not the money, or the jewels, might it not be for the advancement of your career, Sansa?” Baelish calls snidely. 

 

Jaime whirls around more quickly than he’d ever thought possible and strides towards the man who is fast becoming a major annoyance, but Sansa is faster still, laying a gentle, restraining hand on his forearm. “Jaime,” she says softly, and he looks at her sharply. “He’s not worth it,” she shakes her head, raising her other hand to the sharp line of his jaw, thumb gently stroking his cheek. He can’t help nuzzling into the contact, can’t help drowning in her sea-coloured eyes. There’s something gentle, something earnest and yet mischievous in her expression, even as she raises her voice to Baelish, without breaking Jaime’s gaze. “The sex is fantastic,” she shrugs boldly, voice nonchalant. 

 

Jaime can only look at her in incredulous amazement. There’s a subtle blush blooming on her cheeks, but she keeps her eyes defiantly on his. He hears Arthur barking with laughter at his back, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in impressed amusement. “Indeed, darling,” he drawls his reply, loud enough for Baelish to hear, as he gathers her into his embrace. “I thank you for such a compliment.”

 

He knows what comes next; it is the most natural thing in the world to bend his head down as she tilts her face to his and capture her lips with his _(though who_ actually _does the capturing he is uncertain)_. He’d realised this was a possibility when he’d first approached her; a good snog is after all one of the quickest ways of indicating someone is off the market, but nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of her lips against his; warm, soft, yielding, _passionate._ He tries, quite half-heartedly, if he’s being honest, to keep the kiss shallow, but he is too intoxicated, too entranced by her. She intrigues him; makes him want to roar with laughter, she doesn’t back down from a challenge, she’s a dancer, innately graceful, and it doesn’t hurt in the slightest that she is utterly stunning. 

 

It’s only when he vaguely hears Arthur’s dryly amused, “He’s scurried off now, you can stop if you want, but don’t let me get in your way,” that he realises he’s been winding her around him, one hand tangled in her long russet waves, the other having drifted down to her tailbone in order to better hold her against him. He slows the kiss, lingering once, twice, three times, reluctant to stop feasting on her sweet taste. They are both breathing hard, raggedly, when they finally lift their heads, eyes dark and mouths swollen. He looks around and realises the corridor is deserted; Arthur must have sloped off somewhere. Only the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation from the ballroom break the silence.

 

He hasn’t felt like this since Elia - actually, he thinks with a short wince, he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ in his life felt the way he does now. He sees in her blue eyes her own expressions reflected at him; there is desire there, of course, but it is overshadowed by sincere admiration, this incredible sense of affinity and no small amount of shock. He leans his forehead against hers, struggling to regain his equanimity. Being intimately aware of her every inhale, her chest pressing against his, her breath warm and sweet across his cheek, he thinks vaguely, probably doesn’t help very much. 

 

“Fucking hells,” he breathes out quietly. 

 

“Indeed,” she replies softly, secret laughter dancing _(always dancing)_ in her eyes. It’s an expression that, on anyone else, he imagines, would appear mocking, but on her, it’s as though he’s in on some private joke. 

 

“Fuck,” he swears again, clearing his throat. His vocabulary appears to have entirely deserted him; and it’s entirely the fault of the entrancing, intoxicating creature in his arms. “I need a drink.” He pauses then, and looks uncertainly at her. He doesn’t want to overstep the mark. “Would you care to join me, Miss Dayne-Stark?”

 

“I do like a good daiquiri, Mr Lannister,” she replies, a tiny smile appearing on her lips. 

 

“Well then,” he says with a teasing smile, “shall we?” He bows properly, from the waist, and offers her his arm. 

 

She takes it, gently placing a dainty hand on his forearm, and smiles at him. “Lead on, sir.”

 

And like any good dancer, lead on he does.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts?


	3. HARRENHALL II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joanna sways, Jaime stops drinking, Sansa laughs, Tywin considers, and Rickon hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone - apologies for the delay on this. I've wanted to do a Joanna chapter for a while - and thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew; it took a while before I was happy with this. Please do tell me what you all think of this - I've tried to keep up with the banter, but I'm not entirely certain I pulled it off; writing humour is not my strong point after all.

* * *

 

 

HARRENHAL II

 

 

* * *

 

 

JOANNA LANNISTER

 

“Stop glaring at anyone who isn’t wearing an opera scarf, darling, and look over my left shoulder,” Joanna murmurs to her husband, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. “I know you have nothing but the greatest disdain for anyone incapable of understanding a dress code correctly, but it might be an idea to give some of these young people a bit of leeway.”

 

Tywin throws her a look of dry amusement. “Pot, kettle, my dear. But of course  the eminent Joanna Lannister never turns her nose up at anyone, does she now?”

 

Joanna delivers, a discreet, well-placed thwack to his forearm with her black fan, eyes twinkling as he winces exaggeratedly in reply. “I’m entirely serious, Tywin, look over my left shoulder.” She then has the distinct, if rare pleasure of seeing her clever husband entirely lost for words. His mouth slackens, and he shakes his head.

 

“Is that… _Jaime?_ ”

 

Joanna turns and smirks, and the sight that greets her eyes genuinely warms her heart. “Look at him, Tywin. Look at our son… he’s smitten, even if he doesn’t yet know it,” she says softly.  “Have you ever seen him thus? So carefree? So lighthearted?” Tywin sighs then, and looks at her again, and the two share a soft smile. Jaime hasn’t truly been happy, she thinks, for ten years at least, and not even Elia could fully lift the shadows from his eyes, even though the two had been friends for years and years before marrying. Then, of course, came Myrcella, and then Elia’s diagnosis. Jaime had been entirely faithful to his wife, of that Joanna is certain - it is not in Jaime’s character to be anything less than entirely, fully loyal, and after her death had focused on his career and his daughter, but a part of him was missing, as though amputated. The light bled out from his eyes. Now, though, he is animated as she has rarely seen him outside the dance studio, and charming everyone in a ten-foot radius, though he is entirely unaware of it, his entire self focused upon the young woman with whom he is talking, sitting side by side at the bar.

 

Joanna can only see the back of her head, but she takes note of the fluid gestures made with elegant hands, the way she throws back her head as she laughs, russet curls rippling down her back, shimmering in the light. More telling is Jaime’s constant, brilliant grin, as he laughs and speaks and sips at his glass of what Joanna is certain is whisky, and Joanna makes her decision. 

 

“Do you know who she is?”

 

“What makes you think I do?” Tywin raises an eyebrow, and she knows, from the particular movement of his jaw, that he is biting back a smirk, and she does not know whether to laugh or whack him again.

 

“You are incorrigible, Tywin,” she glares at him. “You know because your name is Tywin Lannister and you know exactly who every single person in this ballroom is. Now I want to know who is charming my son so thoroughly he can hardly take his eyes off her.”

 

“Demanding woman,” Tywin mutters wryly. “Her name is Sansa Dayne-Stark, and Castamere’s newest principal dancer. Recommended both by Cersei and her uncle, amongst others, or so Tyrion tells me.”

 

Joanna raises a manicured eyebrow. She’s not entirely certain she’s heard correctly. “ _Cersei_ recommended her?” Cersei, proud, volatile, fierce Cersei never recommends anyone, much less to her twin. “Well then.” Joanna’s smile broadens as she looks affectionately at her husband of thirty-five years. “I know what your plan is, now.”

 

“Do you?” he asks, amused. 

 

“You approve of her. If you didn’t, you’d have already marched over there and dragged Jaime off to introduce him to the most thoroughly boring, asinine old lecher present here tonight you could possibly find, and remind him in no uncertain terms of what being a Lannister entails, and significantly overusing the words _family_ and _legacy._ You just want to see how this plays out. You forget, Tywin, that I know your heart.”

 

“He’s happy,” Tywin murmurs, shaking his head slightly in wonder.

 

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Joanna agrees, before patting his arm. “Now, come along, darling.”

 

“What are you up to now, dear wife?” Tywin eyes her somewhat warily. 

 

“Well, we’re not simply going to stand here, cooling our heels, are we now? Jaime will introduce us.”

 

“Joanna…” he trails off, but he follows her through the crowd, as Joanna knows he always will. Her husband keeps his eyes raked to her form, and Joanna smirks to herself. She fully realises how lucky she is; and perhaps she walks with a touch more of a sway to her hips than she normally does, though she would never admit to such a thing. She’s wearing Lannister crimson, of course, a fluid silk gown with a high neckline that shimmers like the light upon water when she walks, her blonde hair twisted into an elegant chignon. She might be middle-aged, but she still is very much in command of her appeal, thank you very much.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her son’s eyes widen when he sees her, and he hurriedly puts his drink down on the bar and runs his hand through his unruly hair, a habit she has always found immensely endearing. “Mother,” he says formally, rising from the rickety bar stool with his dancer’s elegance to bow from the waist. She waves her hands dismissively; there is no need for Jaime to stand on ceremony _(unless he is trying to impress Sansa Dayne-Stark, she thinks wickedly)_ and she sends him a look that tells him she knows precisely what he is doing. To Joanna’s great surprise, her son blushes. 

 

But it is Sansa Dayne-Stark’s reaction that intrigues Joanna the most, because she executes a full, flawless curtsey with a poise and self-assurance she has rarely seen. If Joanna, and Tywin approaching behind, has made her nervous, it is so excellently hidden so as to be invisible. “Lady Lannister, Lord Lannister,” she says softly, “I am honoured by your presence. Your son speaks most highly of you both.”

 

Platitudes, to be sure, the kind Joanna has heard almost every day of her adult life, but they are delivered with a sincerity, a guilelessness that is most beguiling. “Sansa Dayne-Stark, was it not?” Joanna asks.

 

“It is indeed,” is the reply, with a curve of the lips.

 

“My son Tyrion tells me you are joining the Castamere Ballet?” Tywin says, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, I am.” Joanna is impressed by the way Sansa doesn’t once look at Jaime as she does so, her back straight, her tones remaining polite; she does not quail, despite Tywin’s well deserved reputation for intimidation, and despite the fact that the Lannisters have never been on the best terms with Sansa’s paternal family. “It’s a fantastic company to be joining; I’m very much looking forward to it.” Joanna catches her son’s unguarded expression at that; she has to look carefully of course, but she is well-versed in reading her son’s expressions. There is a soft smile playing about his lips, but his emerald eyes are dark and blazing, and Joanna bites back a laugh. He is very much looking forward to dancing with her, and this evident wish; this notion that this attraction is very clearly between the two dancers and not merely one-sided on Jaime’s part, makes Joanna very curious to see what comes of it, both on stage and off. Dancers often end up in relationships with one another; it is almost inevitable, really. The long hours, the way of life, the physical closeness and emotional openness that develops; all of that is highly conducive to the forming of a very intense kind of bond. But Joanna realises that such a deep connection between the two of them should not already exist; they must have only met this night, and already the evident attraction is abundantly clear to others, for Joanna and Tywin to have been able to read it accurately from the other side of the ballroom. 

 

“Well, Tywin and I shall leave you to your drinks; we must regrettably greet some more people, but we expect to see you both after the ceremony.”

 

“Of course, mother, father.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even Tywin is grumbling inaudibly into his wine glass now. These ceremonies always seem to last for an absolute age, and their host tonight, a comic named Bronn Blackwater, has made enough jokes that Joanna thinks she has had her fill for a lifetime. Amused as she always is by Tywin’s imperceptible grimaces at the chewiness of the salmon filet and the way he wrinkles his nose at the vinegary way the red wines can sit on the palate ( _how wonderfully kind of her husband, she thinks, to provide such entertainment for her - but then again, he is so irrevocably devoted to her),_ the length is now beginning to wear on her as well, and boredom is only staved off by the announcement of the next category.

 

“And now, here come the first of the biggies! Our nominees for Best Actress tonight, are - drumroll puh-lease - Walda Frey, for her excellent performance as the beleaguered wife in Ramsey Bolton’s horror flick _Who Let the Dogs Out?_ ( _and Tywin whispers dryly into Joanna’s ear: excellent if you like screaming)_ Daenerys Targaryen, for her ass-kicking debut portrayal of an isolated bounty hunter in the foreign fantasy epic by Illyrio Mopatis, _Dragon Hunt._ Lyanna Stark, for a beautiful take on Jonquil in an updated version of the legend, called _Florian + Jonquil,_ directed by Rhaegar Targaryen _(she wears blue roses well, he means -_ Joanna whacks Tywin for that with her fan, biting her laugh back down into her throat). And finally, Ashara Dayne, for a flawless rendering of Visenya in the breathtaking biopic by Brynden Blackfish Tully, _Conqueror._ ”

 

Joanna studies the four faces of the actresses, projected onto the enormous screen in front of them, as there is applause and tense nail biting accentuated with the overly dramatic synthetic drumroll being blasted through the speakers, Bronn Blackwater making certain to circle his hand exaggeratedly over the envelope he holds, grinning manically all the while. 

 

As soon as the drumroll stops and silence falls, the host breaks the seal. “And the Dragon for the Best Actress goes to… Ashara Dayne, for Visenya in Brynden Blackfish Tully’s _Conqueror!_ ”

 

Joanna doesn’t find watching the victorious recipient’s face particularly interesting. Instead, she always finds her attention riveted to those who lose - the manner in which they accept their defeats, Joanna finds, tells her more about those people than their wins do. All this information helps her decide which names to put forward to Tywin for consideration. Walda Frey, once she gets over her initial disappointment, shrugs and claps, a genuine smile on her face. Daenerys Targaryen pouts, before applauding blankly, and Joanna immediately makes a mental note. _Ambitious._ But it is Lyanna Stark’s reaction that perturbs Joanna. Once the first shock subsides, an expression which is remarkable in its intensity makes itself visible: a kind of hurt so profound it is almost as though Ashara Dayne has taken something which Lyanna had always been told was hers by right. It is a thoroughly immature expression for a woman of thirty to be wearing, and entirely disconcerting as a result. 

 

And then Joanna’s gaze lands on Ashara Dayne once more, because after accepting congratulations from her brother Arthur, whom Joanna remembers being Ashara’s escort tonight, she is being fiercely embraced by her daughter Sansa. Both women are laughing, weeping, and as the younger tenderly wipes the tears from her mother’s cheeks with her fingers, they are joined in their embrace by a younger, shorter figure, who only reaches the women’s waists, and Joanna realises belatedly that this is Rickon Stark, another figure to watch very attentively this evening. Such evident affection, so open and joyous, cannot be feigned either, she thinks, and it is a further mark in Sansa Dayne-Stark’s favour. 

 

Most acceptance speeches are all variations upon the same singular theme: thank you for the opportunity, I had an amazing time working on this project, and lots of love to my mentors and to my mum and dad for supporting my dreams without whom I would not be here today. But Ashara Dayne’s dedication of her award to her daughter, touches a chord in Joanna’s heart; fierce devotion, unconditional and absolute, to her children, is something she knows very well. Her children are not always easy to love: Cersei with her pride, Jaime with his hidden wounds, and Tyrion who has a chip on his shoulder the size of Dorne - but they are her children and that is all that matters. 

 

“To my daughter Sansa, the best thing I’ve ever made. Sorry Brynden, but it’s true,” Ashara Dayne finishes to appreciative applause and laughter. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

And on and on it goes, and nothing of great import or interest occurs until the Best Actor category comes up. 

 

_And now it’s time to introduce these fine men who are the nominees for the Best Actor award tonight. Theon Greyjoy, for his incredible turn as the political prisoner A in Barristan Selmy’s rollicking ride of a thriller_ Identity: Turncloak. _Rhaegar Targaryen excelled as romantic lead Florian in his film_ Florian + Jonquil. _Young Rickon Stark blew us all away as the unnamed main character in Osha Grenn’s_ Wild Wolf. _And Robert Baratheon stunned us all as the unlikable ex-boxer gone to seed in Jon Arryn’s sport epic_ Looking Back. _And the Dragon for Best Actor goes to… Rickon Stark,_ Wild Wolf. 

 

And eleven year old Rickon Stark takes his elder sister’s hand and doesn’t let it go, declaring as he accepts the heavy trophy that as he has Sansa’s constant encouragement and faith to thank for his performance in this role, she deserves to come up onto the stage with him, and share the prize. She shakes her head, protesting all the while, laughing through the tears of pride that run down her cheeks, only to cover them in embarrassment as he proceeds to lavish her with praise. 

 

_I was nine when we started work on this film, and Sansa had just accepted a place at the Braavosi Ballet, and I was going to be filming in all the way up in Skagos for six months. My parents visited once a week. But what did Sansa do? She rented a hotel room next to mine, and commuted daily from Skagos to Braavos for six months. It didn’t matter if she had a performance that night; she’d phone me. Whenever she wasn’t on stage or in rehearsal, if she wasn’t on a plane she was on set, with me, in Skagos, always encouraging me to push myself. She’s always believed in me, for as long as I can remember. She taught me to read. I learned to dance, to act, to perform, by watching her practise when I was only a toddler. I love you, big sister, more than anything else in the world, and this is for you._

 

Rickon Stark is so heartfelt that Robert Baratheon’s rueful laugh, Rhaegar Targaryen’s badly hidden annoyance, and Theon Greyjoy’s shy relief go virtually unnoticed, and Joanna can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face as she watches. Beside her, a quick glance at Tywin tells her he is thinking exactly the same thing: those two, Rickon and Sansa, will go far. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the final category of the night comes around, the Best Director category, everyone, at every table, is in remarkably high spirits. Joanna sees Jaime laughing at Arthur Dayne’s teasing on one table, Cersei chattering away happily to Ashara Dayne at another. Rhaegar pontificating to Barristan Selmy about something which is probably only of importance to him, the older man putting on a good show of being interested, nodding along. 

 

It therefore takes some doing for Bronn Blackwater to get the room under control, and the cheer which goes up at his announcement of the final category of the night, shakes the walls themselves. Overly dramatic music begins to play _(it’s all a bit camp by this point, Joanna thinks, but delightfully so)_ as the nominees are announced. 

 

_Tonight we have four outstanding filmmakers. Osha Grenn’s gritty, sweeping style has found its’ highest point thus far in her tale of a boy raised by wolves in_ Wild Wolf. _Barristan Selmy is nothing short of brilliant in his sensitive, fast-paced thriller about stealing the identities of political prisoners in_ Identity: Turncloak. _Rhaegar Targaryen gave us a modern twist on a classic legend that is full of winks to the audience. Brynden Blackfish Tully gave us a masterclass in the artistry of film in his historical biopic_ Conqueror. _And the Dragon for Best Director goes to… Rhaegar Targaryen, for_ Florian + Jonquil. 

 

When Joanna thinks back on that moment, the fact that Rhaegar completely ignores Cersei as she goes to congratulate him, a radiant smile on her face, patting her hand, not even looking at her, before sauntering up onto the stage, smiling so his too-white teeth are fully on show, that should have been the first indication that something was about to happen. 

 

But Joanna takes note of the interaction, thinks it passing strange, vows to talk to Cersei about the crestfallen expression that appears briefly on her face before being wiped clean, and then pretends interest in Rhaegar’s speech. He is her son-in-law, after all, and appearances must be preserved. 

 

But it is not Cersei Rhaegar thanks. Cersei, who is the mother of their young daughter Rhaenys, as bright and as pretty and as clever as anyone could want. It is not his family he declares to love, declares as his inspiration. 

 

_And I dedicate this to Lyanna Stark, who has been my constant support throughout this lengthy endeavour. I marvel every day at her intelligence, her compassion, her talent, her fire. Lyanna, my muse, I love you, and this is for you._

 

And Cersei is slapped pale with heartbreak and humiliation. 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts, please?


	4. HARRENHAL III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei is a Lannister, Sansa remembers, Arthur surprises, and Jaime makes a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Welcome to this next chapter, I do hope you all enjoy it; there are a few surprises in this which I hope you all like. This is the first time I've written something from Cersei's POV, so do tell me what you thought of it!

* * *

 

 

 

HARRENHAL III

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

CERSEI LANNISTER

 

 

_You will never see Rhaenys again. You will never see your our daughter again,_ Cersei thinks viciously as her jaw begins to ache from the effort of gritting her teeth against the onslaught of tears, as she walks the length of the ballroom, head held high. _A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep._ Well, neither does a lioness. She is Cersei Lannister and she will not be mocked. So, she controls her stride carefully, appearing for all the world as though she has not had her heart ripped out of her chest. She knows she looks stunning; the close-cut gold lace gown with a black silk floor-length slip does wonders for both her figure and her complexion, and she feels everyone’s curious, gossiping stares on her as she passes by. She’d worn it for Rhaeg- _mustn’t_ think of Rhaegar or else she will break, and wouldn’t all these sheep just _relish_ that. She can see the tabloid titles already: _Cersei Crashes! Rhaegar’s wife spirals out of control._ They don’t care that she’s more than Rhaegar’s wife and the mother of his child; that she is a successful management consultant in her own right.  

 

The ceremony over, most of the guests are mingling either at the bar or on the dance floor; but Cersei, though she would rather die instead of admitting it, wants some time alone, wants somewhere quiet, just for a little while, to allow herself her private grief before she has to go back and face everyone. So she slips unnoticed into the women’s loos, and splashes water on her face, gripping the edges of the marble sink with white, trembling fingers. Her wedding ring, an oval-cut ruby, glitters in the golden light.

 

“I’m sorry,” an unexpected voice says softly and Cersei whirls around, hackles raised. 

 

“I assume you’ve come to gloat? Gloat away like the rest of them, then.” Cersei snaps bitterly. “The floor is yours.”

 

Sansa Dayne-Stark scoffs, turning the taps. “You’re assuming I’m the kind of person who gloats at other people’s misfortunes, and you’re assuming I care about my aunt.”

 

“You expect me to believe you?”

 

“Oh, I do,” the younger woman replies evenly. “You’re forgetting that my mother was in a very similar position to you, once upon a time. You would have been only a child, but the news of Ashara Dayne’s humiliation was quite public, if you remember. The honourable Ned Stark caught having an affair only _months_ after marriage, and when my mother was pregnant with me. And then the mistress, Catelyn Tully, turns out to be pregnant as well. One acrimonious divorce and a lengthy child custody battle later, and I’m being shuttled back and forth between Winterfell and Starfall. My mother would be a good person to talk to, if you ever wanted to.”

 

Cersei frowns, intrigued despite herself. She’s heard the story of course, and Ashara Dayne is quite an interesting woman to talk to, because she both lives within this insane world of film and entertainment, and without it, as an international, prize winning equestrian sportswoman. A bit like Cersei herself: who has one foot on either side of the door. “But what does all this have with - with your aunt?” She can’t bring herself to say the woman’s name.

 

“Lyanna, wild, _untamed_ Lyanna, is the kind of woman who reserves in her heart a particular kind of contempt for those girls and women whom she sees as adhering to traditional _feminine_ values. When she realised I preferred dancing and dresses to rolling around in the mud, well, she despised me from that moment on.” 

 

Cersei studies Sansa Dayne-Stark’s expression very carefully. Behind the anger, cold and furious as her northern home, and as dangerous as the hidden rocks below the surface of the crashing waves of her southern home, there is a hint of the wounded little girl she once was, the kind little girl who didn’t understand why her aunt told her to toughen up and would take her hunting and force her to skin and clean squirrels and rabbits, who didn’t understand why her aunt would reject the direwolf-embroidered handkerchiefs Sansa would present excitedly to her. “How old were you?” Cersei asks, voice soft, though her blood boils with rage. If anyone ever _dared_ treat sweet little Rhaenys in such a way… Cersei would have their heads and no mistake. 

 

“When I understood?” the ballerina asks bitterly. “Six.”

 

“And your parents?”

 

“My father encouraged Lyanna; he said I needed to learn the ways of the North. Catelyn despised me - despises me still, actually - so I learned very early on that I would receive no help from that quarter. And my mother was bound by the law to uphold the custody agreement. Until I was fourteen. Then I refused to go back to Winterfell.” The redhead’s voice is clipped, now. 

 

Cersei narrows her eyes. “Your aunt did something.”

 

Sansa Dayne-Stark looks away, plucking a hand towel from the folded pile, and carefully dries her hands. When she eventually replies to Cersei’s statement, her voice is hollow and her eyes are flat, and she is so still she could almost be a statue, except that her fingers are twisting convulsively into the flanneled fabric. “I was raped by an old friend of Catelyn’s; Petyr Baelish. Father didn’t believe me, Catelyn kicked me out, and Lyanna only said that if I had been fiercer, if I had been a proper direwolf, a proper Northerner, I’d have managed to fight him off; but that because I liked pretty things and spent my days dancing and listening to classical music instead of learning how to punch someone in the face if they displeased me, _I allowed myself to be raped._ I was fourteen. I was a child. And only my little brother Rickon believed me. Only Rickon defended me, and he was six years old at the time.”

 

“Gods above…” Cersei breathes. 

 

“I called my mother and she immediately dropped everything to fly north to come and collect me, and she - I’ll never forget this - when she heard my direwolf, Lady, had been the one to drag Baelish off me and give him an injury which necessitated the cockroach being given over one hundred and fifty stitches in his leg - she wept for half an hour into Lady’s fur. It was the first time I saw my mother cry.” She turns back to Cersei, a fierce, cold, haughty set to her face, carved into her skin. “So if you think that I have _any_ sympathy or liking for my bitch of an aunt, think again.”

 

Cersei surprises herself by laughing. “I can see why Jaime likes you,” she smirks, and the dancer’s reaction is one that is unexpected. Instead of smirking back, or accepting the compliment, Sansa Dayne-Stark ducks her head and blushes. “Take care of him, will you?” Cersei continues more solemnly. 

 

Sansa Dayne-Stark’s blue eyes widen. “I - of course. Of course I will, to the best of my ability,” she promises seriously, before humming in consideration, tilting her head, and Cersei has the strangest sensation that she is being measured against some kind of standard, but she finds herself unable to discern what kind of standard and that greatly disconcerts her. “You do know I believe Rhaegar and Lyanna are frightened by you.”

 

“Frightened?” Cersei shakes her head. “Why would they be frightened by me?” Rhaegar has shown himself all too capable of showing her the most callous disregard.

 

“You’re a formidable lady, Cersei. A dedicated mother _and_ a successful businesswoman, and all this at the age of thirty. But more than that. You’re one of those women who doesn’t need to act like a man in order to be successful in her endeavours, who doesn’t need a sword to get her point across, and that is far more dangerous than a woman who swaggers around swearing like a sailor, for example, because men can predict other men.”

 

“How on _earth_ are you so wise?” Cersei wonders in astonishment, determinedly ignoring the embarrassed kind of warmth that spreads through her at Sansa’s words. 

 

“I’m a dancer,” she smiles fleetingly, showing even white teeth. “Oh, make no mistake, had I stayed in Winterfell I would probably have turned out to be nothing more than a worthless, soulless wreck - but I went back to Starfall, and my mother’s family, well,” she shrugs elegantly, “you could say they closed ranks around me. They are still incredibly protective of me, but they’ve made certain I’m confident in myself. My career has helped too - as a dancer, I need to be confident, physically, emotionally, mentally.” She pauses, a fierce expression appearing on her face. 

 

“Lyanna uses sex as a weapon. She channels her tomboyish wildness into being completely uninhibited in bed, and that attracts Rhaegar; the challenge of it. The prospect of being able to crow ‘I’m the one who tamed her’. She eats men for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But she won’t be able to hold his attention for long - because in order to keep Rhaegar’s interest, she’ll have to capitulate, because it’s all about power. But after she capitulates? What is left? Nothing. Because there’s nothing to her other than her _wildness._ ” Cersei swallows down the vicious surge of hope she feels at that; that Rhaegar’s liaison might not last long - not that she would ever take Rhaegar back; her ability to hold a grudge is second to none, and she fully intends to file for divorce and sole custody of Rhaenys immediately - but she hopes that he might feel some of the humiliation she now feels. 

 

Sansa’s expression turns into a fierce, almost wicked smirk. “But you and I are different; we’re the kind of women who don’t need swords, because we understand that we’re already strong. Because we’re women.”

 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you, Sansa,” Cersei smirks at last.

 

A pleased smile flits briefly across the younger woman’s face, before shifting to something more intent, more compassionate. “Are you ready to go back out there?” Cersei blinks in shock. There’s no judgement, no mocking in her voice, only kindness. Cersei isn’t used to kindness, not from anyone who isn’t family, and even within her own family it isn’t always something that is readily forthcoming. Is that why she’s so disarmed by it? Why she is thrown so completely, utterly off kilter? “It’s alright if you’re not, you know. We can stay here a while long-”

 

A mobile phone, slightly muffled, begins to ring, and Sansa swears apologetically. “Rickon? What is it?” She says worriedly, before paling. “Jaime? Why are you- yes, your sister’s with me. Yes, we’re on our way, give us a minute.”

 

Sansa puts down the phone abruptly, her face white, fingers trembling, lips pressed into a thin line. She inhales shakily.

 

“What’s happened? Why is Jaime calling from your little brother’s phone?” Cersei asks, a ball of dread sinking in her stomach. 

 

“Lyanna said something to Rickon. About me, probably; it’s the only thing that causes him to go ballistic.” Sansa speaks quickly, in clipped tones that belie her anger, as she efficiently puts her phone back into her clutch and strides out of the decadent loos, back down the corridor towards the ballroom. Cersei’s lucky she’s taller, though not by much, or else she’d be running to keep up, and running in stilettos is not something she happens to be especially fond of. “The short of it is, Rickon got angry, Lyanna slapped him, and now both Rhaegar and my uncle Arthur are nursing nosebleeds…”

 

“The paparazzi must think all their namedays have come at once.”

 

Sansa snorts without humour, pushing open the doors to the ballroom as she speaks. “Indeed.”

 

The sight that greets them, is thankfully not as bad as what Cersei had feared. Due to the number of attendees, the noise of the people at the bar and the loud, offensively bland pop music being blasted from the speakers, and the amount of people letting loose on the dance floor, many of the women having taken a pair of scissors to their long gowns for precisely such a purpose, the altercation between Lyanna and Rickon seems to have been relatively contained. 

 

Rhaegar is slumped against a marble column, groaning excessively whilst one of the on-site medics dabs at the blood and her father lectures the actor-director in hushed, clipped tones that convey his displeasure with the utmost clarity. Cersei averts her head in disdain. Is such a pathetic little sniveler really her _charming,_ adulterous husband? In contrast, Arthur Dayne has a small wad of tissues jammed up one nostril and is casually sipping a glass of whisky, leaning against a pillar, staring out into the crowd, jaw locked. Rickon, face pale with fury, little fists clenched, is pacing tightly in a corner, Jaime talking soothingly to him. Ashara Dayne is hissing angrily at Lyanna, and Cersei can only admire the contained flamboyance of her fury.

 

She halts next to Arthur Dayne, stating neutrally, “You punched Rhaegar,” and receives a noncommittal shrug in response. Cersei presses her lips together. “May I ask why?” How is Arthur Dayne involved in all of this.

 

“He’s an idiot, and cruel and careless too.” There’s a glint beyond fury in his eyes; ice and melancholy combined, but then he looks at her, lets his gaze linger over her appreciatively, and continues more softly. “He’s a fool to set you aside.”

 

“I’ll be the one doing the setting aside, thank you very much,” Cersei snaps. “I’m going to go home and get the divorce papers drawn up. I have no intention of letting him come to me and try and wheedle anything out of me.”

 

Arthur Dayne only laughs, lifting his glass to her. “I believe the traditional response is that I pity the man, but I don’t, so…” He shrugs, and that teases a surprised chuckle from her. “In any case,” he growls, “any man who defends Lyanna after what she did to Rickon and Sansa…”

 

“You don’t mince your words.” 

 

“And I find your indomitable spirit rather alluring, Cersei Lannister,” he replies evenly, a half-smile curling around the rim of his glass as he lifts the whisky once more to his lips that twists her stomach and she splutters in shock. 

 

“I’m not in the mood to be mocked.” She retorts, eyes narrowed. She will never admit it, but as a teenager she’d had the most ridiculous crush on Arthur Dayne. She and Jaime had both idolised him, wanted to become ballet dancers just as he was, but tearing the ligaments in her right knee at the age of fourteen had put paid to that dream, and some years later she’d fallen madly in love with Rhae- 

 

“Do I look like I’m mocking you?” he replies softly, intently. “Take your time; divorce the idiot, do what is best for you, and when you think you’re ready, if you’re interested, you know where to find me.”

 

He winks at her, and walks over to Rickon Stark, and she can only stare after him, dazed. 

 

“Cersei,” her mother’s voice calls softly from behind her, and she turns startled. She’s always found it strange, even now, at the age of thirty, that she is the same height as her mother. It had been a point of pride as a teenager, but now it feels odd. Perhaps because she does not really feel like a woman tonight, but like a hurt little girl, and being the same height as the only person she’s ever wholly admired is disconcerting. 

 

“Mama,” her response slips out before she has time to think; and it betrays her, and all of a sudden she is having difficulty breathing, difficulty remaining impassive, and she feels a surge of violent anger at herself. By the gods, she is a _Lannister;_ sheep do not break her; sheep will not see her weep.

 

Her mother takes her hands, and they tremble as she enfolds them, gripping them firmly. “I’ve called Marbrand; he’ll pick Rhaenys up and bring him to us.”

 

“Mother, I -” she protests, but the steel in her mother’s eyes withers the words on her tongue.

 

“You and your daughter are staying with us tonight. I will not have you alone, and I will have no arguments about this.” 

 

And Cersei swallows harshly and nods, knowing there is no gainsaying her mother, not in this. “Not Jaime, though,” she replies. “Don’t ask him to come home because of me, not when he’s finally happy after so long.”

 

Joanna Lannister raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You’re certain?”

 

“I am,” Cersei whispers, surprised at herself, unwilling to parse where this sudden well of generosity is coming from. “He’d come home if I asked it of him, I know he would. My twin has the most generous heart,” she continues proudly, a wistful smile touching her lips. “But I can’t be selfish; I’ve been selfish enough before. I realised earlier that I hadn’t heard him laugh, really laugh, in so long that I’d forgotten what it sounded like. I can’t take that away from him.”

 

“You like her,” her mother says in amazement. “You don’t like anybody. No-one is good enough for your brother, but you like her.”

 

“I can’t explain it.” 

 

A gentle smile touches Joanna Lannister’s lips. “No-one is asking you to, my dear.” 

 

“Can we go?”

 

Her mother’s eyes scrutinise her, and Cersei fights the urge to fidget. “Of course. Let me see if I can peel your father away, and then we’ll leave.” Cersei nods absently, watching as her mother glides over to her father’s side, and does not even have to speak or touch him for him to turn and focus all his attention upon his wife. They exchange a few words and Tywin nods once, tenderly taking Joanna’s elbow. 

 

_He would follow you anywhere, Mother,_ Cersei thinks. Her father is so entirely devoted to her mother, and something in her chest burns suddenly. She thought she’d had that with Rhaegar, something she wants, something she’s always wanted, but she’s realised now that she doesn’t have it and never has had, and in the locked recesses of her heart something snarls mournfully, with a desperate kind of rage.  

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	5. CASTAMERE I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is an arse, Arthur is protective, Oberyn is annoying, Jaime is unamused, and Brienne has surprising news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, so sorry for the delay on this chapter; it proved fiddly. We're back with a Jaime POV for this instalment, and I hope you all enjoy this!

 

* * *

 

 

 

CASTAMERE I

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

JAIME LANNISTER

 

_the following morning_

 

 

 

**red viper** to **kingslayer** 0700AM

I’ll bring Myrcella straight to Castamere

 

**kingslayer** to **red viper** 0715AM

thank you

 

**red viper** to **kingslayer** 0716AM

what’s this I hear about you and our newest principal?

arthur sent me a picture 

the two of you look…close

 

**kingslayer** to **red viper** 0716AM

fuck off, oberyn.

 

 

 

**sir jaime** to **darling** 0723AM

good morning, miss dayne-stark

 

**darling** to **sir jaime** 0724AM

Good morning, dear sir.

 

He smiles briefly at the manner of her address and replies, somewhat impulsively, as he eats, chewing absentmindedly. It’s a thought that has been swirling around his mind all night. 

 

**sir jaime** to **darling**   0724AM

would you be able to come to Castamere for 1030AM instead of lunchtime?

 

**darling** to **sir jaime**   0725AM

I would be able to.

Why do I need to?

 

He chuckles to himself. Even her texting is prim, precise, proper. He enjoys ruffling her feathers more than he probably should, but only because she responds so beautifully, eyes flashing in laughing challenge, a smirk curling the edge of her lovely mouth, her retorts articulate and precisely enunciated and remarkably accurately aimed.

 

 

**sir jaime** to **darling**   0726AM

how do you fancy taking part in a demonstration with me for the most senior preparation class?

 

**darling** to **sir jaime** 0727AM

I’d be honoured.

What would we be dancing?

 

He doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge the trepidation he feels as he answers.

 

 

**sir jaime** to **darling** 0728AM

The final pas de deux from _the most loyal_

 

 

Five seconds later, Sansa Dayne-Stark is calling him.

 

“Darling,” he answers her lowly, and practically hears her shiver in response. 

 

“Jaime…” she trails off, swallowing. “That _pas de deux_ is -

 

“I know. I know. But I don’t want to dance it with anyone else.” It is not a ballet for the faint-hearted, requiring courage not only from the dancers but also from the audience, renowned as much for the controversial storyline as much as for the searing, subtle, pervading eroticism of the steps and the particularly impressive final _pas de deux_ , with its eighteen-bar improvised section.

 

He hears her take a stuttering breath and the fingers of his left hand tighten around empty air. What he has suggested is reckless - he does know that. But it is also the absolute truth - _The Most Loyal_ is one of the ballets on the list for the new season, and so it is only appropriate that the dancers auditioning for places in the corps of his company know how to dance it. What is also true is that it has only been on the list since eleven-thirty last night, when the thought of dancing said ballet with Sansa Dayne-Stark lodged itself firmly in his mind. His sleep had been seared with fleeting images, impressions, imaginings of what it would be like. As artistic director of his own ballet company, it is a caprice he can afford.

 

It is the most famous ballet in the world for a reason.

 

Dancing it with her would be - something absolutely sensational.

 

And he simply _cannot_ resist the idea. The connection he feels with her is something he has never felt with anyone before in his life. 

 

“I’ve never performed it before,” she says breathlessly, and his heart sinks.

 

“Are you telling me you never learnt the steps?” he asks incredulously.

 

“Of course I know the steps - doesn’t everyone?”

 

“That’s why I was surprised,” he rejoins. She laughs lightly and the sound ignites something heated and languid in his chest. 

 

“I’ve just never performed it before.” He hears the uncertainty, the nervousness, in her tone, and wants to reassure her.

 

“Neither have I - not properly, at least. I understudied Arthur’s version when I was seventeen.”

 

“Is that meant to reassure me?” He can hear the lilting smirk in her voice and he suddenly -

 

“Dance it with me, Sansa,” he entreats her, his voice gravelly and rasping. “Darling, dance it with me.”

 

“Yes,” she replies breathlessly. “Yes.”

 

“Good… good.” He is hoarse, a touch strangled and he awkwardly clears his throat. “Well, darling,” he drawls heatedly, “I will be imagining the feel of your waist under my palms for the next three hours.”  

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He is in a ridiculously good mood, whistling an upbeat version of the tune of _The Rains of Castamere_ to himself as he makes his way into his office in the _Castamere Ballet_ building, a large glass-and-sandstone structure with panelled wood interiors right on the King’s Landing waterfront in the centre of the city. 

 

This good mood quickly evaporates when he sees the people waiting for him in his office. Cersei and Rhaenys are not so great a surprise; given the events of last night, he’d sort of expected them. He doesn’t like dealing with Tyrion’s financial reports at the best of times, but given that it is just gone eight in the morning and that he doesn’t believe his little brother is there to talk budgets, he feels a trepidation that only increases when he realises that both of his parents are also in the room, along with Myrcella on her grandmother’s lap.

 

“Well, isn’t this just cozy,” Jaime drawls sarcastically, shutting the door behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His daughter slides off her grandmother’s lap to launch herself at his legs and he smiles, drifting a gentle hand through Myrcella’s dark hair, and then laughing outright as she tugs on his hand in such a manner that he knows she wants to be lifted up. Never one to deny his daughter anything, he lifts her up to hold her against his hip, and she shyly buries her little head in his neck, curls bouncing.

 

“Jaime…” his father warns, and Jaime abruptly catches sight of his sister’s tear-stained cheeks. His twin never cries.

 

“Cers…” he takes an aborted step towards her, halting when she raises a shaking hand to prevent him from coming closer.

 

He tenses. “What has happened?”

 

“Permission to speak, Father,” Tyrion interjects. Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow, but he gestures sharply for the youngest Lannister to get on with it. “Jaime, are you mad? You can’t change the season programme now.”

 

“I can, and I have,” Jaime replies, shrugging. “It’s my prerogative as artistic director.”

 

“But - but - _Etiolate, The Storm God’s Daughter, The Great and the Mad, A Debt Repaid,_ and _The Most Loyal_?” Tyrion continues, disbelieving.

 

Cersei’s mouth drops. “ _The Most Loyal?_ Are you drunk, Jaime?”

 

“I’m entirely sober, Cers - unfortunately,” he returns acerbically.

 

“Not that I don’t have confidence in your dancing, Jaime, but who in the Seven Hells is good enough to be the Queen?” His little brother is relentless, and Jaime is suddenly grievously annoyed. _He’s_ the ballet dancer, not Tyrion. _Castamere_ is _his_ company, not his little brother’s. All of the ballets on the season programme are well-known and beloved of the Westerosi public; he already knows ticket sales are not going to be a problem. Tyrion simply doesn’t trust Jaime’s judgement, it seems.

 

“Who’s good enough to be the Queen? Sansa Dayne-Stark is,” Jaime replies bitingly, before striding over to the table in the corner with the coffee machine. He’s aware of his whole family looking at him in bewilderment as he punches the buttons for an espresso one-handed, holding his little daughter securely against him with his other arm. He downs the bitter liquid in a single gulp before whirling around to glare at them. “Don’t believe me? We’ll be demonstrating the final _pas de deux_ for the advanced preparation class at ten-thirty. You can come and watch, if you like.” 

 

His mother colours. “Is that the one with the improvisation?”

 

“Yes,” he smirks, and huffs a laugh as Joanna Lannister rolls her eyes. She can tell exactly what he is thinking, he knows, and he raises his eyebrows, daring her to say it. 

 

“My son, you do know that’s not a license to kiss her for eighteen bars?” His mother continues, and Jaime has the pleasure of seeing Tywin Lannister staring at his wife in shock. 

 

He huffs, though there’s no real annoyance to it. He is his mother’s child, after all. “Give me more credit than that, Mama,” he declaims grandly, punctuating his statement with a flamboyant kiss to her cheek, and she laughs, jokingly pushing him away, as he puts his free hand to his heart and pretends to stagger, crying _A hit! A hit to the heart!_ with a broad smile on his face.

 

No-one else apart from his mother looks amused, but Jaime doesn’t really care. They’re the ones who ambushed him in his office, not the other way around. 

 

“Alright, fine. What about the other four?” Tyrion persists, drawing Jaime back into the conversation.

 

“What about the other four?” 

 

“Don’t be obtuse, Jaime,” Tyrion snaps, gritting his teeth. “Why those four?”

 

“ _Etiolate?_ ” Jaime replies nonchalantly. “I like the costumes.” 

 

Tyrion growls, picking up a paperweight, and Jaime relents - for the moment. Riling his little brother up is far too much fun for him to give up the pastime entirely. He also thinks his little brother deserves it for how much of an arse he’s being at the moment.

 

“You know why, little brother. Meaty roles, splendid choreography, music that is dark and complex. The story itself is also unlike anything else. _The Storm God’s Daughter_ is a classic, and it fits in rather nicely thematically with the others. Love and danger and all that.” He shrugs again.

 

“And _A Debt Repaid, The Great and the Mad_?”

 

“I’m a Lannister. I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to make a statement of the kind, especially in light of what happened at Harrenhal.” He replies shortly, his patience utterly evaporated. He sees Cersei still and then colour at his words out of the corner of his eye, so he leans over to squeeze her shoulder. She smiles up at him at this, a tense, wan thing, but it is a smile none the less, and mingled tenderness and fury swell up in him.

 

Rhaegar will pay for what he’s done.

 

Lyanna will pay for what she’s done. 

 

His sister has had her personal life entirely upended in public overnight, and Jaime will not stand aside and let her fight to claw her life back together again alone.

 

_A Debt Repaid_ tells the story of Lady Leila Lannister, who married a King of the Ironborn and who after a coup d’état was mutilated and tortured. The Lannister vengeance that was exacted is nothing short of legendary. _The Great and the Mad_ is set during the vicious Targaryen civil war that was the Dance of the Dragons. This is his way of planting his flag, as it were. He is a Lannister. He is on his twin’s, his sister’s side. He might not have his parents’ political clout or Tyrion’s wit, but he can dance, and he intends to do his bit. 

 

“Now that that’s all settled, perhaps we should get to the issue at hand?” Cersei questions pointedly. Jaime doesn’t blame her for how cutting she is currently being; out of all of them, she probably has most cause at the moment.

 

“What’s happened?” Jaime asks again.

 

“Reports have reached us that Lyanna and Rhaegar have a child together. It’ll be all over the news today, if it isn’t already,” His father begins, voice clipped, as though by keeping his voice dispassionate it could somehow lessen the humiliation, fury and heartbreak his sister so clearly feels, even if she does hide it well. “This child is also twelve years old. Rhaegar and Lyanna had a _fling -_ ” his father pronounces the word as though it is a disease “ - and then reportedly rekindled their _epic romance_ whilst filming Florian + Jonquil.”

 

Well, _fuck._ What a morning this is turning out to be. 

 

“So what do we do?” Jaime says wearily, sinking down onto his sofa, settling Myrcella in his lap, avoiding looking at Cersei - she will not thank him for any expression of sympathy, he knows. “Father?” Tywin Lannister, impeccable in his three-piece suit, prowls around the room, an expression of disgust curling his lip.

 

“I’ve already sent off the divorce papers,” Cersei replies, her voice brittle. “He will never see Rhaenys again.”

 

“The press will no doubt be camping outside our doors for the foreseeable future. _Say nothing_ unless I’ve approved it, do you all understand me?” 

 

“Yes, Father,” Jaime nods. “I’ll tell security; I can’t have the press harassing my dancers.”

 

“You mean you can’t have them harassing your Sansa Dayne-Stark,” Tyrion quips, and Jaime glares at him.

 

“What happened to your last girlfriend, Tyrion?” Jaime retorts sharply. “Oh, yes,” he drawls, a hint of menace in the words. “I seem to remember she broke up with you, tried to seduce Father instead and Mother slapped her.”

 

“Enough! Both of you, enough,” Jaime’s father snaps. “Now is not the time to act like children.”

 

“What your father means to say,” Joanna Lannister continues smoothly, “is that we’ll likely be here for the rest of the day, Jaime.”

 

He sighs expansively. “Well, you’d better all make yourselves at home then, hadn’t you?” 

 

There are general murmurs of agreement. Tyrion exits with a wave for Myrcella and Rhaenys both, presumably heading for his own office. His father, as Jaime had suspected he might, has commandeered Jaime’s desk, and is already powering up his laptop. His mother is flipping calmly through one of her jewellery design portfolios, pencil at the ready, gold-plated earphones sitting snugly around her neck like a pearl necklace. He looks over at his sister, at his niece, at the way the little golden-haired girl is curled up in her mother’s lap, and raises his eyebrows. As they have done for as long as Jaime can remember, he and his twin communicate without words, and he immediately discerns her weariness, her volatile fury that masks the swirling depths of her hurt, her utter shock, and he knows immediately that she wants to be on the phone to her team of solicitors, to her colleagues at her management consultancy firm, without having to worry about censoring her language or her emotions to put up a good front for her daughter.

 

“I can take Rhaenys with me, Cers, if you like,” he offers quietly. His niece looks up from playing with her mother’s necklace at the mention of her name. Cersei wordlessly communicates her relief, and so Jaime stands and extends his hand out to Rhaenys.

 

“Because you were so helpful last time, Rhaenys, you can come with me again if you like,” he says, grinning at her.

 

“I can help! Mama, I can help uncle, can’t I?” she says earnestly, sliding to the floor and fearlessly placing her tiny hand in Jaime’s. 

 

For the first time all morning, he sees a true smile on his sister’s face. “Of course, sweetling.”

 

Rhaenys cheers and then bursts out giggling as Jaime lifts her up so he is now carrying one girl on each hip, their heads, one gold, one dark, nestled into either side of his neck, as he nods at both of his parents and exits with more calm than he truly feels.

 

    

 

* * *

 

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0820AM

have you heard about lyanna and rhaegar’s lovechild?

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0823AM

WHAT?

oh fuck

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0823AM

the boy is 12

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0823AM

seven fucking hells

so THAT’S who Sansa & Rickon’s grumpy little cousin is

and rickon’s already left for his interviews

fuckityfuckfuck

well, I’ll tell his agent and in the meantime we should all pray that he doesn’t get asked about it 

how is your sister holding up?

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0825AM

not taking it well

I’m steering clear for the moment

I’m also about to go into a marketing meeting, which makes things easier

Myrcella and Rhaenys are very skilled at charming my marketing department

though I am waiting for Rhaenys to ask about her father

she’s a clever little girl, she’ll figure it out soon enough and she’ll want answers when she does

contact cersei directly, and on your head be it

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0825AM

you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0825AM

I didn’t

it’s everything that’s happened since I got to Castamere

I was treated to a full-family ambush

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0825AM

your self-pity is showing

not what I’d expect from the man who gets to dance the  _pas de deux_ from _The Most Loyal_ with my niece in two hours

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0827AM

does nothing stay private in this city?

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0827AM

you should know better by now, Jaime

oh yes, I might think highly of you, but hurt her and you will not like the consequences

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0827AM

you have my word, Sansa is safe with me

also, says the man interested in my sister

I already have Rhaegar in my sights

don’t make me add you to my list of people to punch

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0829AM

I didn’t know you knew what a list was

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0829AM

very funny

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0830AM

she’s a formidable woman, your sister

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0830AM

quite frankly I think you’re insane

 

**swordofthemorning** to **kingslayer** 0830AM

fuck off, Jaime

 

**kingslayer** to **swordofthemorning** 0830AM

you fuck off

 

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s just one more thing, Jaime,” Brienne of Tarth says to him at a quarter to ten in their boardroom. The rest of the department have already filed out through the glass doors. 

 

He gestures for her to go on, though he hopes it isn’t something that will require a prolonged discussion - his daughter and his niece might be polite little cherub charmers, but after over an hour of ‘helping’ decide what preliminary poster designs will be used to advertise the new season by scattering A4 sheets all over the floor next to their pillow-den next to the projector console in the corner of the sleek, modern room, both little girls are growing restless. Rhaenys has begun practicing ballet steps, an expression of mutinous determination on her face. Myrcella is rolling around on the cushions, giggling hysterically to herself as she watches her cousin. 

 

He takes one look at her expression and groans. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” he says to his head of marketing.

 

“Word has got out that you intend to demonstrate the final _pas de deux_ from _The Most Loyal_ to the advanced prep class in - ” she checks her phone mischievously “ - less than an hour, with our newest principal.”

 

“Yes,” he replies warily. What has Tyrion done now?

 

“Tyrion has invited invited our gala sponsors to watch, pitching it as a sort of advanced preview-thing, and then Pod had the _fantastic_ idea of filming your demonstration so it can go online as part of our campaign. Of course, none of our guests will be able to film it themselves - we’ve made that clear. All phones will be switched off. So we retain that slim element of control.” One of Brienne’s greatest qualities is that she is entirely unflappable, a calm head even when something has gone wrong with one of their merchandise suppliers, or a review hasn’t been printed in an evening edition. Jaime is slightly disconcerted, therefore, to see that even she is showing signs of having been taken by surprise. 

 

“Well, _fuck._ ” It seems to have become his new favourite word, given recent events. He takes a deep breath, glancing sidelong at the two children. They don’t seem to have heard anything. “Do we know which gala sponsors have RSVP’ed so far?”

 

Brienne scrolls through her tablet. “Ah, yes, here we go.” Jaime leans back in his cream leather chair and braces himself. “Lady Olenna Tyrell, Lady Val is flying down specially, Lord Lydden sends his most enthusiastic acceptance…”

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ Somewhere else in the building, his brother is sniggering madly to himself like some demented goblin, and his father is having a field day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	6. CASTAMERE II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion plays welcoming committee, Oberyn sits at a desk, Jaime is dramatic, and Sansa is dazed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, welcome to this next chapter. I do hope you enjoy it; it was rather difficult to write - I find, despite moonlighting as an amateur choreographer, that ballet choreography is quite challenging to translate into words in a manner that is engaging, so I have nothing but the greatest admiration and respect for those writers who have that level of skill, and I hope I didn't acquit myself too badly.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

CASTAMERE II

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

_dance it with me, Sansa_

_Darling, dance it with me_

 

 

Her fingers shake as she does up the ribbon ties of her pointe shoes. Though the demonstration doesn’t start until half-past ten, she’d come in early for her own piece of mind, enabling her to go to the HR department to get her key card sorted, amongst other things. It is now just gone ten, and she is sitting on the floor of the _Castamere_ gala studio, a huge, airy space, with a state of the art floor and enough raked seating to sit over a hundred, and film cameras in the process of being set up. It has a mini orchestra pit which is currently empty, though she expects the musicians to wander in within the next five to ten minutes. The room’s _pièce de résistance,_ though, is the incredible stained glass ceiling that dapples the light in rich, warm tones, and negates any need for artificial lighting. 

 

Tyrion Lannister had been the one to welcome her to the premises, and show her around, detailing the full arrangements for the gala class, and she suspects, from the devilish, amused glint in his eye, that the current arrangements were made by Tyrion with the express wish of annoying his brother, and she isn’t entirely certain she wants to become involved in the tensions between the two Lannister siblings. 

 

She doesn’t normally listen to the music of the piece she is going to be dancing to as she warms up, but she thinks it’s probably a good idea, because it’ll give her something other than nerves and adrenaline to focus on. So she fits her headphones over her ears, straps her phone to her arm and walks over to the barre, beginning to stretch her muscles and limber up.

 

She is so absorbed in the music, and the flow of her stretches, absentmindedly marking the steps, that she is entirely startled when she feels Jaime Lannister come to the barre beside her and begin his own warm-up. 

 

“Hi,” she says breathlessly, pulling the headphones away from her ears, her heart skipping a beat as she takes in the glorious sight of him. Ruffled golden hair, his bright emerald eyes shimmering with mischief and a boyish excitement, a bright smile upon his face. He is also, as required by the character, shirtless, and she swallows down an unladylike gulp. 

 

“Good morning, darling,” he replies quietly, his tongue curling on the words in such a way that she shivers with the timbre of it. “How are you feeling? Alright?”

 

She nods once. “I think so.” She gestures at the raked seating, which is already beginning to fill up with some of the company’s most-high profile and generous patrons. “I wasn’t expecting all of… that.”

 

Jaime grimaces. “Tyrion’s work. I can see the merit in the idea, but a bit of warning would have been nice. He left Brienne, the Head of Marketing, to tell me, instead of warning me himself, the conniving bastard.” His gaze softens. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you were capable of it.”

 

She grins, the knot of tension in her chest easing. “Thank you, Jaime.” 

 

He checks the time on his phone. “We should be starting soon. All the patrons are here, musicians are here, so we’re just waiting for the prep class.”

 

She nods again, flustered when he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, discretely brushing his thumb over her exposed collarbone, and she shivers, absently biting her lower lip, and his gaze heatedly, approvingly, drinks her in. She’s wearing her white leotard with the criss-crossed pearl straps, and the long, romantic chiffon skirt that matches it. Instead of pinning her hair up and back into a bun, she’s clipped it out of her face, but left the rest loose, tumbling down her back, as is traditional for the character of the Queen. 

 

The excited chatter of twenty sixteen and seventeen year-olds coming into the room, sports bags slung over their uniformed shoulders, water bottles grasped in their hands, draws them back to the present. He saunters off with an apologetic grimace to butter up an old man she is pretty certain is Lord Lydden, sitting in the front row, and she quickly moves to turn her phone off and put her electronics and headphones safely back into her bag.

 

She spies Oberyn Martell and Margaery Tyrell seated at a desk, notebooks and pens at the ready, prepared to mark the students, following her and Jaime’s demonstration, and both Lord and Lady Lannister, Cersei and Tyrion Lannister about half-way up the seating. Both of her maternal uncles, Arthur and Parsifal, are also present, and she quickly looks away, a subtle blush rising on her cheeks. The film crew has finished testing the cameras, and waits only for Brienne’s green light to begin. The famed conductor Roslin Frey, who though only twenty-five, first conducted the _Castamere Orchestra_ aged nineteen, is settling the fifteen musicians in the pit.

 

“Right, you lot, settle down!” Jaime calls, and the room falls silent instantly. Sansa sees out of the corner of her eye Brienne directing the film crew, and her curious gaze sweeps across the students, noting their bright-eyed hero worship of their artistic director. “Let’s begin,” he says, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, and Sansa can only marvel at the ease at which he commands the space. “As you all know, the final season list went up this morning. And because you’re an insufferably curious lot, all of you have already memorised said season list, and tried to work out which principals will be dancing which roles,” he continues lightly, “however, that is not the object of this morning’s exercise.”

 

A tense hush falls at this, and Sansa gets the impression Jaime purposefully draws it out, because he winks at her, and she huffs at his dramatics. “This morning’s exercise is the culmination of four years of hard work for all of you. All members of my ballet company must be able to dance the ballets on the season list, whether they are in the corps or a soloist or a principal, it makes no difference. It is traditional for me to select the most challenging _pas de deux_ from all the ballets on the season list every year, to demonstrate it to you so that you can then perform it for your instructors Oberyn Martell and Margaery Tyrell. They give me a shortlist, I review your dossiers, and then all things being well I either offer you one of five places in the corps, or write you a reference letter.” He pauses to let this sink in, letting the whispers, that tremulous sense of anticipation and excitement, break out once more.

 

“Now,” he rubs his hands together, and Sansa wants to laugh outright at his sense of the dramatic, from her place leaning against the wall, but she bites her tongue. “As I’m certain the clever ones amongst you have deduced, the most difficult _pas de deux_ from the season list is the final one from _The Most Loyal - ”_ this time the whispers are not confined to the students but also spread to the patrons “ - which I will now demonstrate with our newest principal, Sansa Dayne-Stark, who joins us fresh from a two year stint at the Braavosi Ballet - ” he stretches out a hand to her and she correctly interprets this as her cue to join him in the centre of the floor “ - and I hope you will make her feel most welcome.”

 

She curls her fingers around his and curtseys, acknowledging the polite applause with a graceful nod. She looks at him and the rest of the world falls away; she barely notices him squeezing her fingers once more in reassurance, barely notices the _chaise longue_ being moved to upstage right, barely hears Jaime’s calm call for _music please, maestro_ to Roslin Frey.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There is an expectant hush as she walks to her starting position, upstage left, takes a deep, shuddering breath, raises her eyes almost to the ceiling, deep melancholy suddenly written into every line of her body, and waits for the music to begin.

 

The ballet tells the story of one of the young, beautiful Queens of old, unhappily married to an ancient, vicious King of the Targaryen dynasty, and her lover one of the Kingsguard knights. Upon discovering that the King no longer discerns between friend and foe, executing indiscriminately, mercilessly, peasant and noble alike, the lovers hatch a plot to kill the King, but are caught before it can be enacted, and are sentenced to die. The _pas de deux_ of the demonstration takes place in their cell, in their final moments together before they are led away to their deaths.

 

Her nervousness fades away into nothing at the first strains of the mournful violin, slow, tender, melancholy, and she stares out into the middle distance, looking out of an imaginary barred window to the rising dawn; the Queen’s last, and though she cannot see him she feels every step of Jaime’s approach, careful and measured, both of them vibrating with tension. And then he is directly behind her, and her skin prickles, the violin melody hanging in the air as though suspended, and then when his hands, large and warm, come to rest upon her collarbones, thumbs brushing her nape, her violent, shuddered exhale, the way her head tips back to rest against his shoulder as his hands smoothly caress their way to her shoulders and down to her wrists, is not feigned in the slightest.

 

A pause; she leans her entire frame against his, bends her right knee a tad, crossing her right ankle over her left and he lifts her effortlessly into a spin. Her nose nestles into his collarbone, she presses a chaste, lingering kiss to his neck, savouring the heady taste of him, her eyes flutter shut and she feels him swallow violently as her feet touch the ground once more. 

 

The violin is joined by the cello, and the haunting melody slows again as she turns her head to look at him. Their eyes meet, blue on green, and the world falls away beneath them. There is only them, the music simultaneously distant in their ears and singing through their veins, and passion, for their art, for each other, crackling between them, a low, kindling flame, the kind that sustains instead of burns. Her left hand shakes as she raises it to his cheek, and her heart accelerates again, her lips part, as he wraps his arm around her waist, gently enough that her movement is not hindered, but firmly enough to guide her, and slips his left foot under hers and guides her steps forwards. She can feel the entirety of his leg against hers, the expression of concentration and desire upon his face searing into her. 

 

Another step, and she is _en pointe,_ turning into his embrace so that she faces him, going into an arabesque, so exquisitely slowly that her thighs quiver, and her fingers dig into his shoulders as the hand not around her waist, holding her so closely to him that his bare stomach touches hers, closes gently around her ankle, and she feels his tender touch even through her tights, and her pulse stutters. 

 

Her lips are so close to his as he guides her into another slow turn that they breathe the same air, their torsos pressed together. She lowers her leg to wrap it around his upper thigh in a step reminiscent of the tango, even as he steps back, leaning her weight on him as she extends the other leg, following his line, and she swallows at the blazing look in his eyes. She drags her hands slowly from his shoulders to tangle firmly in his hair, melting into the strength of his frame as their noses touch, and she shivers, and he tightens his embrace in response, the hand on her tailbone pressing her more closely to him, and the other drifting up her back to tangle in the lengths of her bright hair. 

 

Tenderly, slowly, he presses a kiss to her cheek, her jawline, her neck, and she chokes on a muffled sob, and he straightens them up into another spin as her head falls back upon a sigh, and the music soars as he lifts her by the waist, her hands upon his shoulders, and the colours, the music, it all blurs in her mind, building, building, building, he her only, her sole anchor.

 

She barely registers being lowered to the ground, his hands reassuring and stable around her waist, and the drop to their knees, opposite legs extended out behind them, opposite hands cupping cheeks; a pause, and silence, and a flash of lightning in his green eyes, and then his mouth on hers, consuming and possessive, absolute. She reciprocates ardently, eagerly, shivering as his hand drifts down from her cheek, her neck, her torso, to the front of her thigh, prompting the knee she has on the floor to straighten so both of her legs are entirely extended and her whole weight is supported by him, and then he breaks the kiss to bring them both to standing in a single fluid motion. 

 

Her body melts against his, there is another pause, before it begins again, and they begin to dance the section that intimidates her more than the final improvised part, because the steps are meant to convey physical and emotional despair without making it seem like she’s forgotten the steps or made a mistake, a fine line to tread, so even the steps which are stumbles into Jaime’s arms must be sharp and precise to give them both the power, strength and alignment going into the two rotational lifts. 

 

Jaime traces her features with a barely perceptible tremble in his fingers, his expression tortured, and she knows precisely what he is thinking - _eyes look your last -_ as she executes the first stumble, her heart wrenching. _Eyes look your last_ and the thought is sheer agony. The pain leaves her winded, and she cannot breathe as he powers her into the first lift, the one where she ends up draped over his shoulders, spun first one way, and then the other, and then into the dismount where she is half-carried by him, half leaning, slumped against him, her body arching with the effort of pushing herself up to capture his lips in a second kiss, desperate, trembling and all too brief. Every instant is so precious when their fates are inescapable. 

 

From there, it is straight into the second lift, an attempt of his at comforting her. With a difficult, slow, soaring music, he lifts her curled body up against his, to shoulder height. The ebb and flow of the music helps her place her hands on his shoulders to be able to brace herself, and she executes a half running stumble as his hands sweep down her waist to the tops of her thighs, thumbs skimming the sensitive insides, and her stomach clenches violently, - _is this how he seduces?_ she thinks vaguely - and then she twists so they are torso to torso, and then he slides his hands back up to her waist. In a single movement, using their combined momentum, he lifts her high into the air, and she extends her right leg in an arabesque behind her, bending her left knee so her left shoe touches her right knee, but instead of arching her upper back and extending her arms out, tipping her head back, as is often done in the majority of ballets, she has to drop her shoulders forwards so her arms hang limply towards the ground, her face tilted towards his, the picture of anguished, despairing, furious resignation, timed perfectly to the apotheosis of the music. 

 

Then back down to the ground, her entire body sliding slowly against his, a heated, sensual caress, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. He looks at her with molten eyes, breathing as raggedly, as harshly as she is, pupils blown dark and wide, and then he sweeps her into his arms, launching into the series of steps that will carry them over to the chaise longue. 

 

The sequence harkens back to the second _grand pas de deux_ of the ballet, when they are happy, delirious with success, exuberant, filled with desire for one another, when he takes her to bed. The leitmotif of the original returns, but in the minor key, turning joy to grief, reflected in the choreography, where everything is more desperate, more taut, more difficult, as he tries and fails to summon their previous happiness, to give themselves a distraction from their impending doom.  

 

It is his turn to stumble and falter, and she feels the tension in his body born of concentration, looking down at her with glimmering eyes, and he times it so that they are within an arm’s reach of the chaise longue when he sinks to his knees, and she clings to him tightly, desperately, her heart pounding so fiercely it wounds her, dizzy with far too many emotions to untangle or name. She rises, attempting to comfort him, and he follows her, furious desperation carved into every line of his elegantly masculine body. Even now, in the short moments in which she leads him, she cannot take her eyes off him, the charisma he radiates pushing her to dig deeper in her own dancing. 

 

She finds herself lying on her back on the chaise, and him braced on his elbows, hovering above her, and then she hears the distinctive beginning of the improvised section. She isn’t afraid; she trusts him, and the affinity and desire and - _everything -_ they feel for one another gives her confidence. Her vision blurs and she realises vaguely that she is weeping, and he looks down at her with mingled reverence and concern. He shifts on to one hand and delicately wipes away the tears with the other, and she realises abruptly that she does need to feel afraid.

 

She does not know how she is going to survive this last part of the dance. 

 

She suddenly feels, far, far too much.

 

This is why the ballet is so famous; so revered - so notorious, too. Not solely due to the plot, the characterisation, the technical difficulty and athleticism of the choreography, but because of the emotional demands it places upon its dancers. 

 

He is slow, tender, seductive and melancholic with her, as he once more traces her features with shaking fingers as she lies demurely below him. She stares up at him, wide-eyed, losing herself in the dark, luring green of his eyes, as his thumb presses into her bottom lip. She catches his wrist, and gently guides his hand to her heart, where she presses it down, warmth sinking into her skin. They only have to look at one another, to touch one another, to read each other, to know, instinctively, what the next movement will be. It is not merely the language of skill, the language of passion shared and reciprocated, of shared vulnerability, but a language that is uniquely, solely theirs, requiring no conscious thought, no word, nothing except this symbiosis between them, this magnetic _pull_ that means they cannot keep their eyes off each other, cannot help but linger in their touch, cannot help but be open, entirely, wholly, completely open to each other. 

 

He wraps her left leg around his waist in response, his hand lingering upon her thigh, rising onto his knees, and her breath hitches as she follows him, entranced by the alluring combination of his touch, his presence and the music. He extends his right leg behind him to touch the floor and from there sink down, one knee bent, the other leg behind him, and she mirrors his line, sliding her right knee back so her whole thigh presses against the cushioning of the chaise, her toes pointing to the ceiling. 

 

His hand drifts down from her heart to her waist, and she sighs into the curling warmth of both of his hands there as he lifts her off the chaise towards him, standing as he does so, and she instinctively wraps her other leg around his waist so he supports her fully, and then blushes once she realises what she’s done. His answering smirk is wicked, and she can’t bear it, so she lowers her forehead to his as the music becomes melancholy once more. She feels his arms flex so she carefully unwraps her legs, just as he lifts her again, and she is flying before he sets her tenderly down. The cellos lilt, and his left hand sweeps a lingering touch from her waist down her left thigh to her knee, pulling her bodily into another hold, and she barely stops herself from swooning. For the rest of the improvisation, she finds herself dancing a tango _en pointe,_ with a slow restraint that astounds her, a lingering longing building in her with every possessive touch of his upon her waist, her back, her legs, his wicked thumbs brushing her inner thighs, perilously close to her core, and everything in her aches with desire, stumbling and faltering with the agony of knowing that this must be the last embrace, the last touch, the last feverish, desperate, delirious kiss.

 

It ends with the ominous heralding of the guards’ arrival, and she finds herself slumped in Jaime’s embrace as he kneels, defeated, curled around her as though attempting to protect her, his cheek pressed to hers, wet with both of their tears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The momentary, stunned silence, broken by the distant roar of a standing ovation, is extremely disorientating, and she blinks to clear her head as she stands on shaking legs, aided by Jaime, to take their bows. She is shaken - more than shaken - she feels as though she is in some kind of dream, some kind of alternate universe, shaking with adrenaline and endorphins, the exhilarating high of dancing such a piece, the dangerous, consuming attraction of dancing it with such a partner as Jaime Lannister, and she goes through the motions of thanking the enthused patrons for being so supportive in a daze. 

 

Jaime’s hand on the small of her back, and the knowledge she can read in his face that he is equally affected, is her sole anchor. She is inordinately grateful when he makes their excuses and leads her away from the gala studio, back to the quiet seclusion of his office, his hand never leaving the small of her back, sparking a lingering, languid heat in her blood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	7. CASTAMERE III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin is devious, Arthur is proud, Tyrion is a bit upset, and Joanna - well, that would be telling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks so much for all your comments and reviews; they really do make my day. 
> 
> We're back with Joanna for this instalment, and I hope you like her POV as much as I've come to enjoy writing her. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

CASTAMERE III

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

JOANNA LANNISTER

 

 

“What did Jaime tell you, Tyrion?” Cersei crows proudly, and Joanna has to laugh at the smug, pleased expression on her daughter’s face, sharing a dryly amused glance with her husband, who has a slightly gobsmacked, dazed look upon his face, his eyes glimmering, and she slips a discrete hand into his, squeezing gently, smiling secretively when he reciprocates. 

 

“Yes, well,” Tyrion grumbles.

 

“My twin is never wrong,” Cersei continues in a sing-song voice, leaning to kiss her mother’s cheek, and then her father’s, waving half-mockingly at Tyrion. “See you for lunch,” she says, standing, and making her way down the steps, her head held high, her golden hair curling down her back, radiant and bright against her burgundy sheath dress and Joanna is gratified to see her daughter in higher spirits, coming back to herself, allowing the real Cersei, the Cersei who hero-worships her twin, the Cersei who is proud and confident and absolute in everything she does, to be glimpsed from behind the cold, emotionless mask she has donned ever since the events of the Harrenhal awards. The fury and despair and humiliation will be felt again, Joanna knows. It is not the kind of thing one simply brushes off, and Cersei will be chomping at the bit for vengeance. But she is glad her daughter has had a momentary respite, though she’d noticed the anguish before Cersei had covered it with genuine pride at her brother’s dancing. There’d been a glimmer of yearning emotion in her expression, and Joanna’s heart breaks for her daughter ( _though she will never say it outright - Cersei is far too proud, even amongst her closest family - to ever accept such a remark_ ).  

 

Tyrion gets up in turn. “I should go back to the grindstone, Mother, Father.” She smiles at her youngest as he leaves, eyes twinkling at his exaggeration.  

 

Tywin sighs expansively as the hubbub around them only increases, watching with a sardonic, disinterested air, his habitual mask, Joanna knows. Students and patrons are chattering animatedly, a real sense of excitement in the air. Musicians are making minute adjustments to their instruments, the film crew scurrying back and forth across the floor like heavily laden mice. Margaery Tyrell and Oberyn Martell look to be in quiet, intense discussion, but Joanna’s gazed is fixed upon her son and the way his hand is firm and gentle around Sansa Dayne-Stark’s waist as he quickly greets and thanks patrons, before quietly slipping them both away.

 

Joanna rises to go after them, but is halted by a voice behind her. “I would leave them for now, Lady Lannister,” she turns and sees Arthur Dayne, accompanied by his elder brother, and she inclines her head in greeting. Both men wear suits, foregoing ties, and the Lord of Starfall has a flamboyant purple pocket square in addition. 

 

“Arthur, Lord Parsifal,” she says composedly, though she disagrees. Jaime is her child, her son, and she wants him to know how proud she is of him.

 

“Leave them?” her husband repeats, nonplussed. 

 

Arthur Dayne nods. “Yes - they need time to come to terms with what exactly it is that they’ve just experienced.” Indeed, when she considers it, she can see why that would be the case. The dance had been entrancing and moving enough as a spectator, and she still feels a faint buzzing around the edges of her consciousness, and the world is softer, brighter, somehow - so for her son and Sansa Dayne-Stark… “They’ll rejoin everyone when they’re ready. They just need to work through the adrenaline, their emotions.”

 

“Yes, they were both crying,” she agrees faintly, daintily dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the embroidered handkerchief Tywin instinctively passes her. It had surprised her - Jaime has never cried in public, not since he was a little boy, and though he’s always danced passionately, fairly exuding life, she shivers, remembering the way he’d looked at Sansa Dayne-Stark, the way she’d looked at him… their fluidity, their intensity of expression, and ( _she flushes_ ) the searing eroticism of their art…

 

“And that is the real reason the ballet is so rarely performed, and why it is so well received when it is,” Arthur Dayne comments, something distant, something wistful and pained, in his expression. “It’s not really the technical difficulty of the lifts, the precision and complexity of the choreography, that poses the problem, though of course that is part of it. The real reason is the emotional toll it takes on the dancers.”

 

“Yes, I remember,” Tywin replies, a considering expression upon his face. “You partnered Rhaella Targaryen in it, for the revival, didn’t you? What was it - fourteen years ago?” Now that her husband mentions it; Joanna recalls it quite easily. It had been a stunning piece of work, the final ballet of Rhaella’s career at thirty-seven years old - but what had followed with Aerys; well, neither Jaime nor Arthur nor Rhaella before her death, have ever spoken to her of it, and she doubts they ever will, choosing instead as they have to remain resolutely silent. 

 

“Thirteen,” Arthur Dayne answers tersely, and Joanna lays a restraining hand on Tywin’s forearm, shooting him a look. Curiosity is not worth offending the man Jaime has always looked up to as both mentor and elder brother, the man who’d so intrigued Cersei the previous night ( _it might have been subtle, a touch of tension during a single, short conversation, but she knows her children, she knows her daughter_ ). Her husband nods, almost imperceptibly, and she sighs, the tension bleeding from her body. “You should be very proud of your son,” he continues, making a visible effort to lightness, “the way he danced that was nothing short of extraordinary. It was a gift and a privilege to be able to watch.”

 

“Thank you, Arthur, Lord Parsifal,” Tywin responds, inclining his head regally. “And the same to your niece; her dancing is exquisite.”

 

“I imagine we’ll be in touch as regards Lyanna Stark and Rickon and Sansa,” Lord Parsifal says dryly.

 

Tywin’s lips twist sardonically, though Joanna knows it is not Lord Parsifal’s words that cause such a reaction but rather the thought of Lyanna Stark. “I imagine we will. I don’t suppose the press are still outside?”

 

Lord Parsifal laughs humourlessly. “My kingdom for a perfect world!”

 

“Good day, Arthur, Lord Parsifal,” Joanna says gently.

 

The Daynes bow. “Good day, Lady Lannister, Lord Lannister.”

 

“Well, darling,” Joanna speaks quietly, now that she is alone with her husband. The majority of the patrons have left, and on the dance floor Oberyn Martell is gesticulating to five of the students. “That was enlightening, was it not?”

 

“It was,” he agrees, murmuring, the deliberate way he laces his fingers with hers upon the armrest without glancing at her making her pulse jump, and her husband notices ( _of course he does - it is not without cause that the great Tywin Lannister is both revered and feared as omniscient_ ), the corners of his mouth twitching subtly. “The only good thing to come out of those damned Harrenhal Awards.”

 

“Cersei is going to be crowing about this for weeks, you do realise?” It will do Cersei good of course; it will give her a distraction from the upheaval and turmoil that currently composes her private life, but that isn’t the point, of course. The point is Jaime. 

 

Her husband laughs, and the rich sound warms her heart. “Oh, because Jaime will be far too wrapped up in Sansa Dayne-Stark to notice anything else, is that going to be the way of it?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Of course he is - he calls her _darling_ , or hadn’t you noticed?”

 

“They met yesterday.”

 

Her eyes narrow playfully. “And here I thought you wanted to marry me almost from the moment we met, or was that a ploy to seduce me, _darling_?”

 

“That was different,” he replies out of the corner of his mouth, and she laughs wholeheartedly. 

 

“Don’t lie to me, Tywin,” she says, raising a sculpted brow in challenge. “That wonderful, devious mind of yours is already planning their wedding.”

 

He shoots her a dry, wry look, his voice languid. “And how, might I ask, did you come to that conclusion, my dear?”

 

She smiles softly. Yes, she’d watched her son look at Sansa Dayne-Stark, but she’d also watched her husband watch their son watch Sansa Dayne-Stark, and she’d seen the emotion in Tywin’s eyes. To anyone else, her husband is formidable and impassive, but she has thirty-five years experience in reading him; to her, he is about as subtle as a brick to the face, something that never ceases to amuse her, though she suspects that in this she is alone in her sentiments. “Because you looked at our son as he looked at her, the way he could not take his eyes off her, the way he could not keep his hands off her, and the way she reciprocated, and you realised they weren’t acting.”

 

“Oh?” his green eyes flash in an expression of leonine amusement.

 

“Let me put it this way,” she clarifies laughingly, though what she is about to say she takes very seriously, huffing at this game they’ve played for decades. She’s long known that her husband receives a great deal of pleasure from listening to her make the twists and turns of his brilliant mind explicit, that he revels in the fact that she knows him so well. “Jaime and Sansa were not _only_ acting. They were dancing as Jaime and Sansa _in_ that situation, and that is why it was so moving, so powerful, so… sensual.”

 

“Indeed?” 

 

“Indeed.” 

 

There is a pause as he considers this statement, before commenting evenly, “Well, Jaime is certainly his mother’s child, at any rate.”

 

“Tywin!” she exclaims, and he laughs at her scandalised expression, offering her his arm as he stands fluidly ( _whoever says Jaime gets his grace from his mother isn’t watching nearly carefully enough)_. “You can’t say that in public.”

 

“It was a compliment, as you well know, my dear Joanna,” he drawls languidly into her ear as he escorts her down the steps. 

 

“Even so,” she responds primly, and then she realises she’s left herself open to retaliation as he chuckles into her hair. 

 

“Does that mean my dear wife will allow such compliments privately?” he continues wickedly, and she groans, shooting him a glare that promises retribution, but he only smirks that infernal smirk that has been her undoing for more than three decades. “I eagerly await whatever revenge my Joanna chooses to exact upon me.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She is surprised when her husband leads her to Tyrion’s office instead of Jaime’s, and then remembers Arthur Dayne’s words. Their youngest son looks up from his computer, startled, as they enter, raising an eyebrow in question.

 

“I have no desire to interrupt Jaime’s privacy at this time,” Tywin says dryly, smirking as their youngest son’s ears redden, making himself comfortable in the expansive chrome-and-leather armchair, sprawling out with a sense of power that comes from decades of understanding your charisma and exploiting it. 

 

“So you interrupt mine?” Tyrion rejoins, with a world-weary air that Joanna knows is at least partially feigned, and she smiles to herself. Her ridiculous family, and their love for dramatics. Jaime’s, at least, is well-channeled into his dancing, Cersei unleashes it formidably in the boardroom, but both her husband and her youngest son seem not to be able to turn it off at all, only to amplify it for effect ( _though after being married to him for over three decades, she likes to think she’s managed to tame her husband a little_ ). 

 

“It seems as good a place as any to get on with my work,” Tywin replies lightly, relaxing his shoulders into Joanna’s discrete caress as she steps around him to lower herself elegantly into the armchair facing his. Her husband tilts his head back upon the cushion to look at her, eyebrows raised, but content as a cat in the sun to bask in her affection. 

 

“Discussing Cersei and Jaime’s love lives, you mean?” Tyrion retorts as he taps away at his keyboard. 

 

“Considering Cersei’s _love life,_ as you so eloquently put it, is now a matter of public tabloid press record, then yes, I must discuss it with your mother, and others too.” Tywin replies tersely, opening his smart leather briefcase to pull out his laptop and notepad and gold-plated fountain pen. “If you believe that I am about to let Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark make a mockery of this family, then believe me, you’ve learnt _nothing_ in the past twenty years.”

 

“Tywin,” Joanna warns, and he nods, brows furrowed, clearing his throat. She knows her husband’s words come not from a place of malice, but from the abiding, all-consuming love and pride he has for his family, and yes, she can see the hurt, too, the insult, hidden underneath the biting retort, the insult her husband feels at the thought of their youngest thinking Tywin will not do anything, everything, to protect and revenge his family. Her husband might not wear his heart freely upon his sleeve; but he is not emotionless - far from it, in fact. Her husband is the still of the Sunset Sea of their home, and the currents churning underneath the surface.

 

“Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark will pay for what they have done to your sister, Tyrion, and they will pay for what they have done to the family name,” Tywin repeats icily. “It is the only outcome I will tolerate; and it is therefore the outcome I will work tirelessly to make happen.”

 

“Do you always gossip about your children’s private lives, Mother?” their son continues, a touch of annoyance to his cadence, though the blatant tone of confrontation has disappeared. 

 

“We are your parents, and we want our children to be happy and successful in their endeavours, and yes, that does include your romantic lives,” she replies. “I suggest you refrain from antagonising your siblings about this for the foreseeable future.”

 

Tyrion grins cheekily back at her, unrepentant. “But it’s so much _fun,_ ” he whines. “Besides, Jaime mentioned Shae, this morning.”

 

Joanna coolly arches an eyebrow. She can countenance many things, but other women attempting to seduce her husband is not one of them. It doesn’t matter that she knows Tywin will never look at any woman besides herself _(and that is not arrogance on her part, but the mere fact of the depth of his devotion to her, and her devotion to him),_ it matters that these upstarts had the _audacity_ to attempt it. Though she does suppose said would-be seductress being previously attached to one of her children is a novelty. “You should not have mentioned Sansa, then, should you?”

 

“But it was just a jape.”

 

“Tyrion,” she sighs wearily, “when Jaime and Sansa were dancing, what did you see?” 

 

He huffs. “I take your point, Mother, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make fun of him a little. Besides, a wise man once said teasing was good for the soul.”

 

“Tyrion, Elia was diagnosed almost immediately after they returned from their honeymoon,” Joanna continues, ignoring her husband’s sudden look of concern. “She elected not to be treated so she could give birth to Myrcella. Do you remember those months where Jaime took Cella with him from the studio and the hospital and back again? Because I do,” she snarls icily. “As much as he was unfailingly good in caring for his daughter, in supporting his wife, I had to remind my son to eat, to sleep. And then when Elia succumbed he became a single father, so now that he has found a lovely girl who makes him happier than I have seen him in fifteen years, you will do nothing to jeopardise that.” Her youngest stares at her, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting such a cold diatribe. “Do I make myself _quite_ clear?” 

 

Tyrion agrees sullenly, in the manner of a small child upset because his favoured toy has been taken from him, and it takes all of her poise not to grit her teeth in frustration. Tyrion is eight years younger than the twins, and so she thinks that when the tragedy that was Jaime’s wedding to Elia happened, her younger son was off being a teenager far too much to pay any great attention to those things around him that he wasn’t specially interested in, and she can see how, to a seventeen year old Tyrion, his elder brother’s marriage had appeared to be a particularly alien thing. 

 

“They tease me about _my_ private life, mother!”

 

“Yes, and you know perfectly well why that is, Tyrion, so we won’t get into it again,” she responds evenly, and her husband stiffens beside her. Calling Tyrion’s relationships _romances_ would be generous; they are dalliances, if that. Her youngest child is rapidly acquiring a reputation as an inveterate womaniser, and it is not a reputation either of his parents are particularly happy with. She has more than an inkling that his promiscuity stems from the heartbreaking notion that her youngest believes that, as a dwarf, he would not be desired by any woman for anything more than a one-night stand. So Tyrion seeks out young women who give him that, and then is cynically disappointed when the fling peters out, and the vicious cycle repeats itself; a self-reinforcing prophecy. And her private grief stems from the knowledge that she can see her child in pain and doesn’t know how to help him.    

 

“I thought the divorce papers had already been sent off?” Tyrion asks his father, evidently tiring of the previous subject. Her youngest child, she found when he was still quite small, understands things best - _prefers them -_ in terms of concrete facts, though Joanna does occasionally worry that this means, for all his intelligence and wit, that he finds it difficult to discern that a person might have multiple, even contradictory motives for doing something, much less reconciling those motivations in his own mind.

 

“They have,” Joanna replies. “But we still need to deal with the press reactions to the Lyanna-Rhaegar love child revelation.” Her lip curls in disdain. “I imagine your father will continue doing what he was doing earlier - that is to say, replying with the same statement to all the journalists who phone him up for a comment.”

 

“You mean you don’t trust your people to take care of this for you?” Tyrion asks, in a tone of voice that seems genuinely curious. 

 

“For something as sensitive as this is?” her husband snaps. “No, I do not.”

 

_Men, men and their egos,_ Joanna thinks in exasperation. As much as her husband’s absolute devotion to his family is something she loves him for, there are times when it creates a volatile environment, and she stands with an unladylike huff, barely registering her husband looking up in surprise.

 

“My dear, what are you - ” he begins, brow furrowed in confusion, before his protests abruptly melt away as she begins to rub his shoulders through the material of his tailored shirt, his jacket having been idly tossed onto the sofa opposite as they came in. He sighs, becoming utterly pliant under her deft, tender touch, eyes fluttering in bliss. 

 

“You must relax, my darling,” she murmurs. “You are far too tense and you will get nothing done.” Her hands find a particularly stubborn knot and her husband groans. “I have every confidence in you, my love. Everything will turn out as we wish it to.” Her fingers move to his temples to caress away the tension-based headache she knows from experience he is currently nursing, fingers raking across his scalp, and she enjoys the fluffy texture of his short hair grazing her palms.

 

There is a strangled cough from their youngest and she becomes aware that Tyrion is gazing at them in horrified fascination, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Well,” he says eventually, when he has regained control of his vocal cords, “if my parents insist upon being so disgustingly domestic - there are some things no child ever wants to see or hear - I shall take myself off to the courtyard where I will actually be able to work.”

 

Her husband waits until Tyrion has left, laptop and file under his arm, before huffing with laughter, looking at her pointedly. 

 

“And they call me devious,” he mutters sardonically.

 

“I know my children,” she replies with an elegant shrug, though unable to stop an amused smirk from materialising upon her lips, “and I know my husband as he knows me,” she continues, tracing tender circles into his temples with her delicate fingertips, and she laughs when he nearly purrs with satisfaction. “You should be able to hear yourself think now.”

 

He catches her hand as she walks around him once more to lower herself once more into her own armchair, and kisses the tips of her fingers, his gaze intent. “Thank you, my dear.”

 

“Of course, darling,” she replies airily, pulling her sketchbook, drawing pencils, mobile and headphones from her handbag to continue working on her new jewellery designs, listening to a soothing piano concerto to help her concentrate. She looks across at her husband occasionally, admiring the elegant picture he makes, sprawled in the sleek, modern armchair, cuffs and collar undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, navy waistcoat emphasising his frame, tie discarded, his phone practically glued to his ear as he begins the long, boring, frustrating process of telling the tabloid journalists what they wish to know. 

 

When she hears the cold bite of his anger rising once more she slips her silk-stockinged feet out of her stilettos and places them in his lap, glorying in the strength and warmth of his thighs, evident even through his tailored trousers. He looks at her sharply, but she merely smiles secretively into her sketchbook, concentrating upon the elegant lines of the necklace she is designing, and her smile broadens when his free hand comes to draw lingering, idle patterns into her ankles and calves, his palm warming her skin in a most delightful manner.

 

He is calmer then, and the remainder of the morning passes productively.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	8. CASTAMERE IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa drinks tea, Jaime asks a question, Arthur gets more than he bargained for and Joanna makes a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Apologies for the delay on this chapter; I had trouble deciding which direction to go in with this instalment, and then my life imploded, so... but it's up, finally, and I hope everyone had a good time hunting easter eggs and eating their weight in chocolate :) I should be able to get back to a more regular posting schedule now - the next chapter up should be Part XVIII of 'There is no turning back' and I'm hoping that'll be by the end of the week.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling - enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

CASTAMERE IV

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA DAYNE-STARK  

 

Her teeth are chattering so violently that she vaguely wonders if she is going to dislocate her jaw, and she winces, her breathing harsh and sharp. She is following Jaime almost blindly, her vision hazy, his hand warm upon her lower back and she distantly registers the click of his office door shutting and locking behind them. 

 

“Sit here,” he says unsteadily, gesturing at his leather sofa, and she sinks gratefully into it, curling up like a child, resting her chin on her knees, forcing herself to go through her exercises in an attempt to settle her still racing heart. Breathe-two-three-four-five, hold-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five, and again, and again and yet again ignoring the burning in her chest, the tingling in her fingertips, the whirling vertigo, and pushing herself to _slow down._ It is the only way; she’s found, or else the adrenaline will linger in her body for days, and the inability to sleep will be the least of her problems. The fog in her mind clears slightly, the iron bands around her lungs loosen, and she sags forward, looking around the office. 

 

It’s an elegant, light space; unmistakably masculine with the dark wood panelling contrasting with the floor-to-ceiling windows, black-and-white artistic shots framed around the room. 

 

“Peppermint, lavender, chamomile or verbena, darling?” he asks, glancing back at her from where he stands near the sideboard, heat and affection in his gaze, adrenaline tensing his muscles, as he prepares two pots of tea and assorted mugs, and her pulse stutters.

 

“Lavender, please,” she answers automatically. She doesn’t like the taste of verbena and chamomile tends not to have much effect on her, and peppermint tea will do in an emergency, but lavender is much faster acting, she’s found. “I - gods - ” she trembles, giggling wearily, hysterically, a vicious snap of tension. Even the adrenaline after the premiere of _Water Dance,_ her first professional ballet, had not been this bad. What has just happened? The final _pas de deux_. _The Most Loyal._ Jaime Lannister. Rationally, she knows what has occurred; but emotional understanding at this point is still beyond her. It is too extraordinary, too momentous - _too much._ Far too much. She is flying and falling and she cannot rest, cannot _breathe,_ she is going mad, she exists only on that higher, ephemeral plane where his hands are warm around her waist, where his corded thigh spurs hers into movement, where his lips brush a searing kiss to her neck-    

 

Her fingers fasten around a ceramic mug, and she blinks. It has childish blue and yellow sunflowers painted onto the sides, _(his daughter’s, perhaps?)_ it is soothingly hot, and she automatically curls her hands around it, the floating, heady, delicate aroma wafting into the air, tugging at some deep chord within and her concentration returns as she forces down the sensation that she is walking on quicksand to be dealt with once her heart rate has settled down again.

 

Jaime sinks wearily next to her, a ragged sigh tumbling from his lips, holding a mug of his own. She instinctively angles her body to his, taking small sips of the restorative, calming liquid once her hand has stopped shaking enough for the risk of spilling the tea upon her lap has passed, focusing upon the solid, reassuring presence of his frame beside hers. “What’s yours?” she asks between tentative gulps. 

 

“Mint and chamomile,” he replies, his voice gravelled, leaning his head back against the cushions, and she drinks in the line of his jaw with admiration, shivering, the sound of his voice crashing through her, making her dizzy once more. “It’s the only thing that gets my heart rate down enough for me not to faint in the shower after a performance.”

 

She hums her agreement, suppressing a wince. Fainting in the shower is not fun. “Lavender isn’t grown in Braavos,” she murmurs, leaning her cheek upon his shoulder, and his arm comes to rest naturally around her, and the physical contact with him settles her slightly; at the moment he feels like the only real, solid thing she knows. She is eminently aware of him; she can feel every expansion of his ribcage against her side, the way his every exhale is stuttered and staccato, the scent and heat of him. It’s a very strange frame of mind to be in - half anchored, half soaring, unaware of the material world but for him - but not one she is entirely unfamiliar with. This liminal, vague, wandering world is her natural habitat after an intense performance, though the mist has never been quite this seductive. “My family had to send me industrial quantities of the stuff.”

 

The low chuckle he gives in response is deeply thrilling to her. “I freely admit to being similarly neurotic about my chamomile supply. Mama is a horticulturalist, amongst other things, as you may know,” he continues more smoothly, warming to his tale, “and I only get my tisanes from her.”

 

“And the verbena?” she queries, raising an eyebrow. He snorts, amused.

 

“Little girls can be quite energetic, I’ve found, and since we often have two running about the place, well - ” he breaks off, grinning at her, and she has to laugh at the exaggerated expression of fatigue upon his face. “A couple of sips usually does the trick. Cella is also very shy and anxious around people she doesn’t know. Rhaenys bruises easily. It’s helpful for that too.”

 

She frowns, her brows drawing together in ill disguised curiosity. “Where are they?” Neither little girl had been at the demonstration, and the Lannisters do not seem to be a family to leave their young unattended.

 

Jaime Lannister smirks, and her heart somersaults in her chest. “They have a beginners ballet class until lunch, which generally means they’re exhausted instead of hyper, thank the gods.” His affection for his daughter and niece is clear even through the dramatic, long-suffering tones he adopts, and a soft smile flits across her face. He takes a long draught from his own mug. “Drink up, darling,” he continues softly, “and I’ll run you a bath.”

 

“A bath?” she blinks, disorientated. 

 

“Yes, a bath, darling,” he drawls raffishly. “Also known as a big tub often filled with hot water that most people find quite relaxing.”

 

“I know what a bath is, Jaime!” she huffs indignantly, swatting at his arm, melting at the rich sound of his laughter, as he hauls himself to his feet, making for what she quickly realises is a hidden door in the wooden panelling that leads to a bathroom of ridiculously luxurious proportions, all carved marble and gleaming porcelain and clean modern lines. She now feels coherent enough to follow him, ( _full awareness returns slowly, and the transitory state is as unsettling as the original transcendence was, perhaps even more so)_ so she pads on silent feet, both hands wrapped around her mug as she finishes her drink, watching as he saunters about, turning the taps, placing a mountain of fluffy white towels upon the cabinet, within easy reach of the enormous sunken marble bath that is in pride of place. 

 

“Iced, warm, or boil-a-lobster?” he asks, a mischievous, wicked light in his green eyes. 

 

“Boil-a-lobster?” she retorts, laughing. 

 

His grin widens, and he shrugs his shoulders. “A local Lannisport idiom I’m rather fond of. We Westermen do like our lobster.”

 

She hums noncommittally, watching with hidden glee as his expression becomes scandalised. “Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten lobster?”

 

She smirks, simply to see what he’ll do. “Guilty as charged, Jaime.”

 

He gasps in exaggerated shock, his hands flying to rest over his heart. “My lady,” he declares passionately, pretending to stagger, “you wound me to the quick! Truly you have not lived until you have tasted Lannisport lobster!”

 

She raises her eyebrows in challenge. “Is that an invitation, Jaime Lannister?”

 

“Only if you would like it to be,” he replies, suddenly solemn and serious, a look in his eyes she doesn’t know how to interpret. 

 

“Yes,” she clears her throat, embarrassed. “I’d like that very much.”

 

The answering light in his green gaze at once pins her in place and fills her with an astonished sort of warmth, and she cannot help drifting closer to him, enjoying the way his breath hitches, the way his whole body tenses ( _she could not be more abruptly reminded that he is shirtless, her mouth is dry and she doesn’t understand how she is still standing)_ the way his eyes darken at her approach. 

 

“Sansa…” he trails off, bemused. 

 

“Hush,” she admonishes him softly, stepping nearer to him, close enough that the toes of their shoes touch, and then she is still for a moment, revelling in his presence, the scent of him heavy upon her tongue, before she leans forward to place a sweet, chaste kiss to his heart, unable to resist.

 

“Darling-” he says, choking, trembling. “Darling - you - I - _fuck -_ ” he gathers her to him and she sighs with triumph, mutely offering him her neck, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure when his hands slide firmly around her waist, when his lips brush the sensitive skin below her ear. He growls her name and she melts in his embrace, languid.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hot water is a shock of the best kind, restoring her to wakefulness with an appreciative gasp. Jaime kneels at the waterside and she blinks when she catches sight of her clothes neatly folded upon the shelf, her pointe shoes carefully placed upon them.

 

“I hope I didn’t give you an eyeful, sir?” she says, turning a sheepish expression on him, her cheeks heating as she looks at him through the protective curtain of her hair.

 

He shakes his head, laughing lightly. “I turned my back.”

 

“Such a gentleman,” she retorts teasingly.

 

He shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “I aim to please, darling,” he replies, and the rich timbre has her biting at her lip to prevent a moan from escaping. “I’ll leave you to it now, if you’re certain you’re alright.”

 

The bath has relaxed her, and she feels playful, at ease even, the hot water working its magic upon her. “Oh, I’m very well,” she replies expressively, enjoying the way he swallows audibly at her words, and her smile widens. “But it does not follow that your presence is unwelcome. Stay, Jaime. Your bath is big enough for both of us.”

 

He colours, but remains silent. 

 

“Don’t worry, my dear sir, I promise I won’t look,” she continues, splashing at him with her foot, and that makes him laugh. “I promise.”

 

He looks at her for a long, tense moment before nodding sharply, his hands moving towards his waist, and she yelps, hurriedly covering her eyes. “Jaime!” she cries abruptly, “some warning would have been nice.”

 

She can sense him shrugging mischievously. “Turnabout is fair play, my darling,” he replies, and she smothers an embarrassed moan by ducking her head into the water.

 

“So I did give you an eyeful?” she says as she surfaces, her palms still pressed to her eyelids. 

 

“Just a little.” His laugh is a warm, light thing that becomes an ecstatic groan as he lowers himself into the hot water and she has to dig her nails into her palms to stop herself from reaching for him. “You can open your eyes now, darling,” he continues, still amused, though his tones are already more languid. 

 

She does so, and the instant their eyes meet heat crackles between them like wildfire and she hurriedly averts her gaze, biting her lip, choking on her laugh, unable to stand the intensity with which he regards her. _Breathe, you have to breathe,_ she reminds herself. _In-two-three-four-five, hold-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five. Again. Again._

 

Jaime groans once more and her gaze flies to him, unguarded, and she shivers as she sees his throat convulse. “Fuck,” he growls. “ _Fuck,_ what a morning.”

 

“Hold me,” she blurts out.

 

He tilts his head, pupils blown wide with shock and bewilderment, unable to believe that he has heard her correctly, so she repeats herself, more firmly. “Hold me.”

 

“I - ”

 

“Your heart rate is still too fast,” she continues evenly, hiding her own breathlessness. “For that matter, so too is mine - the tea, the heat, the breathing exercises, I’ve gone through them all and _still_ I can’t calm down, except when you touch me,” she explains from her side of the tub. “Something physical to hold and touch might help.” It will help her, she knows, and she hopes it will help him. 

 

“My darling siren,” he says eventually, his voice an octave lower than his normal timbre, all rumbly and dark velvet. “Come here.”

 

She needs no further invitation and mewls blissfully as his hands slide around her waist to rest upon her hips, pulling her flush against him. She sighs happily as she rests her cheek upon his shoulder, her lips a hairsbreadth away from his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nipples brushing against his chest, and the heated coil of desire deep in her belly tugs at her, making her mouth twitch. 

 

“Breathe with me, Jaime,” she murmurs, feeling secure now that his bare skin slides against hers, warm and slick. “Breathe with me,” and she feels him begin to respond, his warm breath tickling her collarbone, their ribcages starting to move in unison, and gradually, slowly, their beating hearts align to something more sedate, more settled.

 

“Darling,” he repeats quietly, a hand tangling in her wet hair. “Darling,” and her frame melts and softens against his as he surrenders to his inclinations and presses a column of chaste kisses from her shoulder to her neck to her jaw, her chin, the corner of her mouth, before he pulls away again. “We shouldn’t be doing this now.”

 

“This isn’t just the adrenaline, Jaime,” she murmurs, wincing at the hesitation in his eyes. “You know it isn’t.”

 

“We’ve kissed to get rid of Baelish and we’ve kissed because it was choreographed,” he answers a touch acerbically. “And now it’s because we’re both so high on adrenaline still that this is a last resort to burn it off.”

 

She sweeps her hands from his shoulders to cup his cheeks and he is helpless to resist leaning into her touch. “Yes, adrenaline lowers your inhibitions. But it doesn’t give you inclinations you didn’t already have.” She raises her chin, looking at him defiantly. “I don’t want to dance with anyone else ever again. I enjoy the way you touch me. I want you to kiss me, here, now.”

 

He looks at her seriously, scanning her features for the sincerity of her words. “Fuck it,” he breathes, before his lips claim hers in a searing kiss. They are both too wound up, still reeling from the intensity of their dance, in that strange state of unsettled euphoria, to be anything but entirely consuming. She presses her body to his and wishes she could be closer still. His hand at her neck tangles in her hair, a hint of tension, a hint of dominance that makes her pulse flutter, and his other hand at the base of her spine makes her tremble in his fierce embrace. Before, there was an audience, but now the last vestiges of their restraint fade away, now that they are alone, now that there is no ulterior motive. She responds just as passionately, ardently holding his mouth to hers, mewling with delight when he sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, sighing as she opens her mouth, her heart, her soul to him for him to claim.   

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They linger embracing in the water until it is tepid enough to be uncomfortable, until they suddenly remember that an outside world exists, and Jaime is the first to climb out and she has to look away as the water runs down his frame, her gaze snapping up once more as he offers her his hand, bowing gallantly, a towel wrapped around his waist. Struck by she knows not what boldness she stands in the water, keeping her eyes on his as she lays her palm in his, relishing his sudden intake of breath, the darkening of his emerald gaze to something dark and heated, and though her cheeks pink she raises her chin defiantly, and steps out, aware of the way the liquid slides down her body like a languid caress. 

 

“My darling…” he gulps, but she only slips past him to wrap herself in the oversized fluffy towels.

 

“My sir?” she murmurs in response, looking at him over her shoulder as she combs through the tangles in her hair with her fingers. He is gaping at her, an expression of stunned amazement upon his countenance, and she flushes shyly as she realises - _oh._ But in her defence, she feels so completely comfortable in his presence that - _(and dizzy and knocked for six and entirely incapable of doing anything other than melting at his simple touch, if she is being wholly honest) -_

 

“Fuck, Sansa, I want to peel that towel off your delectable body,” he replies roughly, before the mischievous light returns to his expression and she knows she’s in trouble. “With my teeth,” he continues wickedly, and she sways, throwing out a hand to steady herself against the counter. _And I would let you, gladly,_ she thinks dizzily. _I want you to._

 

She blinks, focusing on the cool marble beneath her right palm, and inhales more tremulously than she would like. “We should dress, my sir, or we - ”

 

“Will begin something we aren’t ready for,” he finishes, nodding wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face, making his hair stick up in unruly spikes. “Dress, and I’ll order us some lunch.”

 

She agrees reluctantly, pulling her spare set of clothes out of her bag before she can think too much about it, everything in her protesting the fact that she must walk away from him to do so. She throws a flimsy crimson sundress on over her underwear and patiently blow-dries her hair with the portable dryer she carries with her, taking more care than she otherwise might, looking critically at her reflection in the mirror, not exiting the bathroom until she is satisfied with her appearance. 

 

When she walks back into the office, Jaime is lounging upon his sofa, dressed casually in a white shirt and suit trousers, and the coffee table is set with bell-covered plates and a bottle of wine and she raises an eyebrow when he only smirks at her as she settles herself at his side. 

 

“What have we here?” she asks quietly, suddenly exhausted, wanting only to curl up in his arms and ignore the rest of the world. 

 

He pulls off the metal covers with a flourish that makes her laugh at his dramatics, and her mouth waters at the aromas wafting from the steaming food. Pistachio-crusted seared salmon and sautéed leafy greens with a lobster sauce. Almond couscous in little terracotta bowls. And then two of the most delicate lemon tarts she thinks she’s ever seen, and she turns an incredulous gaze on him. “How did you know?”

 

He shrugs unrepentantly. “I texted Arthur,” he replies, before pouring her a glass of the chilled Arbor Gold. Their fingers brush as he passes her the drink and she shivers. “And before you feel embarrassed, I also told him Cersei’s idea of a good date happens to be a red wine and dark chocolate tasting.”

 

“You what?” she sputters, hurriedly putting her glass of wine down on the table so she doesn’t spill it all over herself. There’s the warm, mischievous light in his eyes she is fast becoming far too enraptured of, and she moves closer to him so that their shoulders touch. A dizzy heat coils in her stomach as he instantly lifts his arm to drape it across her shoulders and pull her closer to him. 

 

“It’s called mutually assured destruction, darling,” he replies, his thumb tracing idle patterns into her collarbone, and her head falls back, half against him, half against the cushions. 

 

“Won’t your sister kill you?” she asks.

 

His grin is full and feral as he answers. “I trust Arthur not to use said knowledge until the opportune moment presents itself.”

       

She laughs, shaking her head at his playfulness, before briefly leaning forward to take a plate of the salmon from the platter so she can eat, balancing it on her lap, sighing with bliss as her forkful melts in her mouth, the rich depth of the pistachios a perfect complement to the fresh flavour of the salmon. Her eyelashes flutter and when she opens them again he is staring at her, his gaze dark and intent and she swallows. “This is very good,” she continues, her voice far throatier than she realises. “You should eat.” 

 

His fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass and he takes a long swallow, before raising his eyebrows in raffish, laughing challenge. “What would you say to a game?”

 

Her lips curl around another forkful of the fish in reply, and she notes how his eyes drop to her mouth, the way his gaze darkens further, and she allows herself a silent, exhilarated laugh. “And what game would that be?”

 

“The answer to a question for every bite. I find myself utterly bewitched by my darling siren, and wish to know more of her.” His voice lowers, becomes richer in timbre and it is her turn to dig her nails into her palms. “Failure to do so would result in a forfeit.”

 

She answers him with a glittering expression. “Lead on, my sir.” 

 

“Darling siren, which of _The Most Loyal_ or _Etiolate_ do you prefer?”

 

“That is your first question?” she exclaims laughingly.

 

“I ask it of everyone who works here,” he retorts, mockingly solemn, and she bites her lower lip to keep from dissolving into helpless giggles.

 

“Then I must consider it… _most carefully,_ ” she replies in the same vein, her mouth twitching. “ _Etiolate’_ s choreography is meaty and splendid, but I must confess that _The Most Loyal_ remains my favourite - ” she moves closer to him so that she can whisper against his lips “ - for the simple reason that I have danced it with Jaime Lannister, and will only ever dance it with Jaime Lannister alone.” 

 

“My darling siren indeed,” he chokes, reaching for his wine, and she leans back to allow him the time to compose himself, a secretive smile upon her lips as she watches him fight for composure.

 

“You did say that turnabout was fair play, my sir,” she feels compelled to explain.

 

“Oh?” he arches an eyebrow in amused confusion. 

 

“Your phone call this morning, Jaime,” she reminds him pointedly.   

  

“Ah, yes, well…” he replies, a flush creeping up his neck. 

 

“Have I embarrassed you?” she asks in amazed delight, laughing lightly, languidly, resting her cheek in the hollow of his neck. He groans, sagging back against the cushions, his hold on her tightening. 

 

“No - perhaps,” he answers eventually, a ragged laugh escaping his lungs, catching her hand to trap it against his covered chest, and her mind recalls the heady memory of his warm skin bare under her palms, and her pulse stutters again as he turns his head and she lifts hers so their noses barely touch. They tease each other this time, coming so, so close, breathing the same air before pulling away the slightest increment, only to draw together once again, lips almost touching -

 

She startles violently at the sudden ringing, almost upending her plate onto the floor. Jaime swears fiercely before answering his phone, annoyance radiating from him. “Mama?” his voice softens a bit. He glances at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes, she’s with me, we’re having lunch. Why?” Her stomach tightens and she sets her plate back onto the platter. “Right.” His voice is harsh. “Will do. Bye.”

 

As she stares at him in bewilderment as he snatches the remote off the table to turn the TV on to the lunchtime interview programmes before gathering her wordlessly to him, his entire body vibrating with tension. 

 

She can only watch the screen in wide-eyed, incredulous amazement, inordinately grateful for his anchoring embrace as her heart drops to her feet. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, please?


End file.
